


Controlled Release

by steebadore



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Light Dom/sub, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Praise Kink, Sex Worker Steve Rogers, Sub Bucky Barnes, maybe too many dick jokes, so many dick jokes, with apologies to friday night lights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-04-17 04:09:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14180274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steebadore/pseuds/steebadore
Summary: Bucky's just having a little trouble...finishing. Completing the mission. He can squeeze the trigger but he can't make the shot is what he's saying.Which is why he's here, loitering outside a nice brownstone in Park Slope, trying to find the courage to knock on Captain Come Control dot com's door for his three o'clock appointment.You know, just normal Thursday things.





	1. Controlled Release

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks very much to anoneknewmoose for the beta job!
> 
> Sometimes you're browsing tumblr late at night and are struck with inspiration... (see end notes for a very NSFW link to said inspiration)

It's a truth universally acknowledged that a dude in possession of a working dick is in need of a good orgasm. It's just science. 

Things start getting weird when you go through an extended dry spell. You begin noticing people in not strictly socially acceptable ways: the size of their hands, the shape of their mouths, the way their hips move when they walk and how that might translate to other activities. People start smelling good. Like, _really_ good. You can smell the guy standing next to you on the train's skin, and your gag reflex isn't triggered even once. The gym becomes a minefield of Will This Specific Brand of Deodorant Give Me an Erection. You start to feel surrounded by couples, as though god himself wants you to know that everyone is fucking but you. They're everywhere, holding hands on the sidewalk like perverts, canoodling in restaurants with no regard for public decency. Absolutely shameless. 

But that level of weird has nothing on what happens to you when it's been _two fucking years_ since you've been able to come at all. Bucky would just like to state for the record that he used to be a normal person who had a normal sex life. He thinks he'd be willing to give up sex altogether and subsist on self-administered handjobs for the rest of his life if it meant he got to actually orgasm.

And look, the equipment is all in working order. He still wakes up hard most mornings, still pops a boner during his twice weekly hour of scheduled Adventures in Internet Porn prescribed by his therapist, Sam. He's just having a little trouble...finishing. Completing the mission. He can squeeze the trigger but he can't make the shot is what he's saying. 

Which is why he's here, loitering outside a nice brownstone in Park Slope, trying to find the courage to knock on Captain Come Control dot com's door for his three o'clock appointment.

You know, just normal Thursday things. 

Christ. He runs a hand over his face, thinking briefly of turning around and walking back the way he came. Taking the train back to his apartment, back to his room, and closing the door behind him. Fitting himself into the dark quiet space between the bed and the closet and just breathing for awhile. 

But no. He's better than that now--he hasn't had an episode like that in nearly a year. And besides, Tasha would probably murder him. And he owes her for that time a couple of weeks ago when she'd come home from a work trip early and found him meditating in the nude, surrounded by scented candles with a Gentle Nature Sounds Netflix program on the TV. 

(It'd been a homework assignment from Sam. "Let yourself be present in your body," he'd said. "I don't know, man, maybe some candles and soft music," he'd said. "It'll be okay, Bucky," he'd said. But clutching a floral throw pillow to his wilted dick while Natasha looked down at him in mild horror? That was not, in any way, okay.)

He'd been forced to explain his broken dick to her, which might have been a lot less embarrassing than I Am Sexually Aroused by Bird Calls, but was still fucking awful. But instead of giving him the empty platitudes he'd expect from anyone else, she'd simply raised one of those perfectly arched brows and said, "I know a guy who could probably help you with that," and pulled up a webpage on her phone.

Because of course she did.

And sure, he might never be able to look Natasha in the eye or be able to smell Creamy Vanilla Custard candles ever again without self-immolating, but the thing is he's desperate. 

It'd taken him a long time to rehabilitate to the point he had the mental bandwidth to even think about his dick doing anything more interesting than taking a piss. Now, armed with, well, a metal arm courtesy of Stark's experimental myoelectric prosthetic program and almost a full year of some very intense therapy with Sam, he's got the energy. He's got all the energy in the fucking world. If you were to somehow harness the energy of Bucky's desire to just _fucking come goddamnit_ , it could probably power the entire eastern seaboard. At this point, he'd do anything to orgasm, up to and including paying Tasha's internet famous friend to edge him into a sobbing, begging, eventually come-covered (god-willing) mess. On camera. 

So Bucky takes a deep breath and knocks. When the door opens a moment later, he tries very hard to school his face into a blank mask, but he's pretty sure he fails. This guy is just so…well. Delicate's a good word. He's small and slight, bird-boned and beautiful with a shock of bright hair and the biggest, bluest eyes Bucky's ever seen. They're at once warm and assessing, and Bucky doesn't know what he'd been expecting of the man in the video with the thin arms and elegant, insistent hands that made grown men weep and beg, but it definitely wasn't this. 

"Hi, you must be James. Come on in," he says in that deep voice Bucky can't decide if he's attracted to or jealous of. (Both? Both.) No one with those pretty eyelashes who looks like they'd be a buck twenty soaking wet has any business carrying around a voice like that. 

Bucky only flinches a little when the door closes behind him and he registers he's in an enclosed space with a stranger. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, and reaches for the hand the man is holding out toward him. It's soft and a little cold, but strong. Which makes sense, given its work as a Professional Dick Gripper. He wonders if all the lube is what makes his skin so soft. Does lube have moisturizing properties? Too sticky maybe, but--

"I'm Steve," he says, interrupting his mental tangent. "And you're late."

Bucky gapes a bit as he reels his mind back to the present. "I'm…sorry?"

"If it happens again, I'll make you regret it," Steve says cheerfully. "But since it's your first time, I'll let it slide. Here, come sit down in the kitchen, we'll talk a bit before we get started."

A bolt of panic hits him like lightning striking his brain stem, frissons of frantic energy snaking down his spine. He feels off-balance, and it's stupid. So stupid. Had he expected to be pulled inside, stripped and strapped down without any discussion upfront? Though he'd been able to concentrate on almost nothing else the week leading up to his appointment, Bucky's brain had skipped from point A—arriving at Captain Come Control's Sex Dungeon—to Point Z—shooting a gallon of jizz across Captain Come Control's Sex Dungeon and weeping with relief—without really considering any of the steps in between. 

His mind races as the reality of what he's agreed to hits him square in the chest. He's in a stranger's house. He's agreed to let a stranger touch him in a way that is almost guaranteed to make him panic at some point. What was he thinking? He can't do this, he can't—

Bucky makes himself focus on Steve in front of him, taking deep, covert breathes as he follows him through the living room. He concentrates on the slim line of Steve's back, the narrow set of his hips, and resists the urge to catalogue his unfamiliar surroundings and let his vision fade to the geometry of risk assessment. 

Steve is Natasha's friend. He trusts Natasha, and if Natasha sent him here, he can trust Steve. Steve is not a threat. Steve is wearing soft looking jeans and a white t-shirt that hangs off his thin frame. His bare feet make soft, shuffling sounds on the hardwood floors. Steve has strong, soft hands with no calluses. Steve cannot hurt him. Steve is going to help him.

As Bucky's panic recedes to a manageable anxiety he thinks is probably normal for the situation (by whatever metric ‘normal' is measured in a situation where you are paying someone to torture you), he becomes aware of himself in comparison. He's conscious of his size, clumsy and awkward by contrast as he lumbers behind Steve in his dark jeans and heavy boots and his Thursday Shirt—a red henley with a small rip in the collar, stretching obviously over his bulky metal arm. 

Steve sits down at the small oak table in the kitchen and gestures to the chair across from him. The kitchen is small and clean, all exposed brick and white cabinetry, bright and airy with the late afternoon sun streaming in through the window over the sink. There's a small plant on the sill, something deep green and spiky looking. Everything looks clean and homey—neat, but lived in. It's…comfortable. And so far outside what Bucky'd been expecting he feels his anxiety ramping up again. 

"This is always the awkward part—the talking, I mean," Steve says with a knowing little smile. Christ, the guy's pretty. All blue eyes and plush red mouth. Bucky tries not to stare, but it's hard to reconcile the forceful guy in the videos with the unassuming man in front of him. "But a necessary evil. We both gotta be comfortable with what we're about to do, and I need to know where your boundaries are so I don't accidentally trigger something and ruin a good time."

"Makes sense," Bucky says, though at this point he's not sure he has any boundaries. If it will make him come, he'd probably do just about anything. Like sit in this weirdly intimate kitchen and discuss the most embarrassing thing about himself with a stranger.

"So you mentioned in your email that you're a combat veteran who's had some medical issues that have kept you from achieving orgasm for some time."

Bucky blows out a breath. Well, that's blunt. "Yeah, that about sums it up. It's been two years since I've uh, achieved orgasm." The air quotes are heavily implied. 

Steve raises a brow and purses his lips, as though Bucky's issued a personal challenge. "Well, that ends today," he says confidently. "You're not the first person I've seen with this kind of trauma-induced problem, and I haven't failed yet."

Bucky laughs a little uncomfortably. This suddenly feels so clinical, like he's seeing a doctor instead of the guy he Venmo'd $250 to take him on the Handy Train to Come Mountain. "Well, I'd hate to be the one to break your streak, pal, so I'm really pulling for you."

Steve grins, sharp and feral. "You won't," he says. "And I'm ignoring the obvious joke there, it's too easy."

Bucky laughs and feels himself relax incrementally. "I'll try to make it harder for you next time."

"Don't be cute, we're having a serious discussion here," Steve says, shaking his head. His laugh is deep like his voice, but rougher--it scrapes along Bucky's skin, making his nerves shiver and spark. Honestly, that voice. What the fuck.

Bucky tries not to blush at that. Maybe he'd been cute ten years ago, before the army and the war had filed his soft edges into sharp corners, but these days between the grim slog of reintegration and the bulk he has to maintain for the tank of an arm he's carrying, he knows his vibe is more aggressive than adorable. 

"So, I assume you've seen the clips on my website?" Steve asks. Bucky nods, and Steve's all business again. "Good. So you have a general idea of how I operate. First and foremost, I'm never going to do anything without your explicit consent, up front. No surprises. I'll always talk everything through with you."

Steve's gaze is direct and serious, his sincerity giving his words physical weight in the space between them. Bucky nods, a little jerky and nervous, and licks his lips. "Okay."

"Now, the rules," Steve says. In what should definitely be an impossible subversion of science, his voice deepens even further, taking on the firm, authoritative note he'd had in the videos. There he is, Bucky thinks and feels himself relax even further, for reasons he can't really identify. 

"During the scene, you will address me as sir. You will tell me when you're close. You will not come without permission. If you do come before I've given permission, you will be punished with another orgasm." Steve pauses and grins a little wickedly when Bucky raises a brow. "You ever had a forced orgasm before, James? It's not as fun as it sounds. Incidentally, that's also what'll happen if you forget to thank me for letting you come."

"Uh, okay. Please and thank yous required. I'll make my ma so proud," Bucky says, then freezes. "Wait. Scratch that. Let's leave my mom out of this." 

Steve holds up his hands, placating. "Hey, I'm not here to kinkshame you, James. Some guys wanna call me daddy, you wanna think about your mom while you--"

"Ugh! No, stop. God." Bucky covers his eyes with his left hand, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

"Well, that's a good segue into safe words. Thanks for the assist, pal," Steve says with a shit-eating grin. "You got one you like to use?"

Bucky frowns. "Can't I just say stop?"

"Sure," Steve says with a shrug. "I'm pretty good at reading the room, but it makes me feel more comfortable to have one, just in case. At a certain point, you're going to start begging me, and what if I can't tell the difference between you being a desperate little mess and you actually needing to stop? I might take you seriously, might send you home without letting you come, just to be safe."

The steady rhythm of his voice doesn't change but there's something there, some subtle menacing note that makes Bucky's throat go dry and the muscles of his abdomen clutch around a slow spreading warmth. Steve's so good at this shit, easy and in complete control, like he knows just what buttons to push to twist Bucky up inside.

"Yeah, okay," Bucky says a little hoarsely. "Let's do the safe word thing. Uh…" His eyes flit around the room, trying to come up with something. "Broccoli?"

Steve snorts. "Sure, why not."

"Not real likely to say it on accident with your hand on my dick."

"Stranger things have happened," Steve says. "But broccoli works. You say broccoli and we stop, no questions asked. And if you want to slow down or need to pause for any reason, say yellow, okay?"

"Okay."

Steve picks up the notebook sitting on the table beside his elbow. "Now, let's talk limits. How do you feel about restraints?"

Bucky feels the flush suffuse his face. "I'm uh…interested, but never done it. So."

Steve nods and jots something in his notebook. "We can give it a try, see how it goes. Penetration? Either my fingers or toys?"

Bucky chokes and Steve grins. "Um. Yes. I don't know. Maybe?"

"Well, which is it, James?"

Bucky closes his eyes, willing the blush to recede and wondering why the hell Steve couldn't have gone over this stuff with him over email. He opens his eyes and sees Steve grinning, his eyes dark and hot on his red face. 

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" 

"What, making you squirm? Absolutely," Steve says. "It's kind of my thing, if you haven't noticed." 

Bucky thinks back to all the videos of men squirming under his hands, the way his firm, steady voice sometimes took on a gleeful note when they began to beg and cry. Yeah, definitely his thing.

"So, penetration?"

He clears his throat. "Um. Used to be a big hell yes, but it's been a while and—"

Steve waves a hand, taking pity on him. "We'll work up to that. Doesn't have to be a yes or no today."

Bucky exhales, relaxing a little. "Okay."

"What about external stimulation with toys?"

Bucky nods, swallowing hard. 

"Use your words, James," Steve says, a little bite to his voice that has Bucky's head snapping up and his spine straightening. 

"Yes," he says quietly. "Toys are okay."

"Good, James," Steve says, his voice softer, pleased with Bucky's response. It loosens something inside him, making Bucky feel a little soft and pliant, warmth rushing in with the praise. Steve scribbles something in his notebook and Bucky wonders if he's taking notes on his reactions as well as his responses, cataloguing all of Bucky's tells to use on him later. He wouldn't be surprised.

"How much, if any, pain do you like?" 

Bucky feels his eyes go so wide he must look like a cartoon character. "What?" He tries to remember if there'd been anything like that in the video clips, and he doesn't think so. "I mean, I've been...spanked before, and that was--I liked that." He ducks his head then, feeling his face heat. God, that feels so long ago. A different life. A different body. 

"Good," Steve says, and Bucky can hear the smile in his voice. "So would something like...say, a slap or a pinch to get your attention be okay?"

"Yeah, I think so," Bucky says. "Just not my face?"

"Got it," Steve says, making another note in his book. "And on that note, Is there anywhere you don't want me to touch? Anywhere that would cause you pain or discomfort?"

"I have pretty bad scarring over my left shoulder and torso. Nothing hurts but I haven't—no one outside of doctors has really touched any of it. So. It might make me uncomfortable. Probably. I dunno."

"Okay. If I touch anywhere that makes you uncomfortable, what do you say?"

"Um, yellow? Or…broccoli?" Bucky frowns.

"Whatever makes sense to you in the moment. Either is fine. We'd talk about it, either way. Okay?"

Bucky nods, then remembers himself. "Yes. Okay."

"Anywhere you particularly like being touched? Aside from the obvious," Steve adds, smirking.

"Honestly? It's been so long I hardly know." This more than anything else makes Bucky self-conscious. He feels suddenly pathetic and awkward, his body unwieldy and repulsive. 

But Steve smiles gently. "It'll be a learning experience for both of us, then. Do you want me to talk to you during the scene? You've seen my videos—some guys like dirty talk, some need quiet to concentrate. You have a preference?"

Bucky thinks about that. "I don't mind talking. It's probably better if I'm not in my own head so much—talking'll help. But not—don't be mean?" He swallows thickly, feeling ridiculous. "Don't call me a slut or anything like that."

"Humiliation's not your kink, got it. That's helpful, thanks." He jots down another note in his book before putting it aside. "My last question is usually about consenting to video recordings, but I think today we'll go off the record. We can discuss it if you decide to come back, okay?"

"But Natasha said that was part of it all?" Bucky'd spent a lot of time mentally preparing himself for it. To have it taken off the table without discussion feels anticlimactic. Like he's failed a test he hadn't known he was taking.

Steve shakes his head. "I don't film everyone for the site. Some people are more comfortable not being recorded, for obvious reasons, some get a thrill out of it. Either way I'm careful not to reveal faces or any identifying marks but, well…" He looks pointedly at Bucky's arm.

"Kind of hard to hide the gigantic metal arm, huh?"

"Just a bit," Steve agrees. "If you want to be recorded we can talk about it next time, figure out a way to disguise it or obscure it during editing, but I wouldn't be comfortable posting something with such an identifiable feature."

Bucky nods, relieved and embarrassed all at once. "Thank you."

"Anything else you think I should know?"

Bucky shakes his head. "I just really hope this works."

"It will. I'm going to take care of you, James. Trust me, okay? That's all you have to do."

Bucky nods, feeling his throat go tight with emotion. And for the love of god, he was not going to fucking cry. 

Steve smiles gently, like he knows. "You ready to get started?"

Bucky swallows hard and nods, then catches himself. "Yeah—yes."

"Go into the second room down the hall and take off your clothes. Have a seat on the bench, I'll be there in just a minute."

***

He's trembling as he removes his pants, folding them neatly and placing them on the floor beside his boots. He hesitates with his hands at the hem of his shirt. His scars are ugly, upsetting. Even if Steve had agreed to record him, he might have changed his mind after seeing them, decided Bucky didn't fit the pretty boy aesthetic like the rest of his customers. 

His arm whines and whirs in the quiet room as he stands frozen with indecision, gnawing on his bottom lip. He finally compromises and decides to take off the henley but keep his undershirt on. It leaves his arm exposed, but at least all the scars are covered up. 

Besides, he doesn't want to take the train home with come all over his shirt. Even if it would be a badge of honor at this point.

There's a fine tremor running up his thighs as he sits on the black padded weight bench and takes in the room. It's familiar, he's seen it in Steve's videos of course, but it looks different in person. Normal. It's probably an office when Captain Come Control isn't in session; there's a desk in the corner with some pretty high-end computer equipment and a camera set up. A chest of drawers full of god knows what sits next to the desk, and there's a comfortable looking chair situated across from the bench, a small table beside it laid out with a literal jug of lube, wet wipes, and a couple other things Bucky can't name.

All things to use on him. 

His stomach jumps at the sight and he closes his eyes, taking deep breaths to center himself as he waits for Steve to reappear. The room is warm and bright with the sun streaming through the slats in the closed blinds. A shaft of sunlight cuts across his torso, and Bucky focuses on the concentrated warmth on that sliver of bare skin at his throat.

He hears Steve's bare feet pad into the room, but keeps his eyes closed and his breath held tight in his chest as he waits for his reaction. He tries to picture himself through Steve's eyes, half-naked and ridiculous looking, probably. His body bulky and inelegant, held tense and coiled waiting for Steve to say something--anything--even if it's just to tell him to take off his shirt. But there's just the sound of Steve fiddling with something to his left, and then music starts to play. It's all low, throbbing bass and a sultry, almost lazy voice over it. It's more sensual than sexy, and Bucky's glad for the distraction. 

He opens his eyes when he hears Steve walk toward him, watches him crouch in front of the bench and reach for something underneath it, and unbidden Bucky's dick twitches at the sight of his blonde head kneeling at his feet. Irrationally, he feels a surge of embarrassment at the reaction—as though Steve isn't about to spend the next hour jacking him off. Getting hard is kind of a prerequisite. He should be glad his dick's getting with the program, even if the rest of him is drowning in nerves.

Steve sits back on his heels, holding up a pair of leather cuffs connected to the metal legs of the weight bench. "You want to try?"

Bucky swallows thickly. "Okay," he says a little hoarsely.

"You don't like it, we take them off. No big deal, okay?"

Bucky nods, letting his eyes close for a moment while he feels Steve position his leg where he wants them and strap the cuffs around his ankles. He opens his eyes in time to watch Steve take his metal wrist in his hand, turning it over to inspect the plating before wrapping the cool leather cuff around the metal. It whirs and shifts at the pressure, and Steve smiles a little. 

"No sass from the peanut gallery," he says, tapping an index finger against the plates.

Bucky chokes out a little laugh. "Yeah, he's pretty opinionated, sorry."

"It's StarkTech, right?" Steve asks.

Bucky raises a brow in surprise. He didn't think the program had gone public yet; there were still a few weeks of testing scheduled before the big press conference.

"Yeah, how did you know?" Bucky asks.

Steve shrugs noncommittally. "Who else?" And well, that's true. "How much can you feel?" 

"Pressure, some temperature. Not a lot, yet. We've been slowly ramping up the feedback, though. So that may change at some point." He's not actually sure if he's allowed to talk about it, but it seems like Steve may already know something about the program. 

"Alright, good to know," Steve says, getting up and settling into the chair across from Bucky.

Bucky frowns. "You're not going to do my other wrist?"

"Nope. Go ahead and give those a good tug. Let me know if anything feels uncomfortable."

He pulls against the cuffs, surprised at how tightly he's held. The way his legs are positioned--spread wide and extended--means he doesn't have much leverage to move his hips, and though he's careful not to pull too hard with his metal arm, he can barely move it more than a couple of inches. The chains connected to the metal brackets of the bench make clanging sounds as he shifts, and a nervous thrill runs through him as he pictures himself the way Steve must see him, tied down, naked and spread open for him. At his mercy.

Steve runs his eyes slowly, deliberately over him for a long moment, as though memorizing every inch. Bucky feels the nerves bubble up in him, pushing against his ribs, crowding at the base of his throat. 

"You ready to get started?" Steve asks just then, as though he could see the exact moment the tension in Bucky ratcheted to an unbearable degree. 

Bucy nods, swallowing hard. "Yes."

"Yes, what?" Steve asks sharply, and Bucky jumps.

"Um...yes, sir."

"Remember that. What are the other rules?"

"I tell you when I'm close, and I don't come until you say so. And I say thank you when I'm done."

"Good. Get yourself hard."

Bucky gapes. "What?" 

He doesn't know why the thought of touching himself in front of Steve fills him with such squirming embarrassment--he's tied up and naked already, for shit's sake--but oh, here's that boundary he didn't think he had.

"You heard me. Get yourself started for me. Show me how you do it."

"How I do it isn't so successful, historically speaking. That's kind of why I'm here," Bucky snaps, his nerves getting the better of him.

"Hey," Steve says sharply, his hand shooting out to grip Bucky's chin, jerking his head up to look him in the eye. "You're here to do what I say. Put your hand on your dick like I told you, or go home and be a brat on your own time. Those are your options."

Something shivery and hot runs through Bucky at the feeling of Steve's fingers digging into his jaw, his narrowed eyes boring into him, intense and direct. It hadn't been a test, not really--Bucky hadn't even known he'd wanted this--but the swiftness with which Steve slapped him down is a reassuring reminder that Bucky is not the one in charge here. That whatever happens next--whether this desperate attempt to get that last piece of himself back is a success or failure--it's outside of Bucky's control. All he has to do is listen to Steve. For the next hour, that's his only responsibility. 

Bucky lets out a long breath and closes his eyes, wrapping his flesh hand around his half-hard dick. His movements are jerky and awkward at first, intensely aware of the sharp blue eyes taking in his every move, and he really fucking wishes he'd thought to shave at any point in the last two years, because holy shit there is...a lot happening in the general vicinity of his crotch. And none of it is good. 

After a few minutes he loses himself to the familiar rhythm of it, squeezing from base to tip, thumbing over that spot just under the crown, skimming his palm over the head to gather the wetness leaking there. Again. Again and again until his blood begins to hum and his breath catch and--

A hand on his leg, soft warm palm smoothing over his skin, fingers tracing patterns on his inner thighs, up and up until they're running over his balls, not enough pressure to do anything but make him aware of them, their weight, the way they're drawn up tight and so full, and _oh_ \--maybe? Maybe this time--

"Stop."

An involuntary whine crawls up his throat, but he swallows it back as he drops his hand and opens his eyes to see Steve's gaze trained on him, hot and anticipatory. 

"Good," Steve says softly, and slides a tight, wet fist over the head of Bucky's cock.

"Fuck," Bucky gasps, jerking against the restraints. 

Steve's grip is so much tighter than his own had been, and it's so warm and so slick he must have poured an entire bottle of lube in his hand and held it. It feels like--it feels like he's inside someone, like he's fucking, and--he lets his eyes drift close, soaking up the sensation of a touch not his own. It's been so long since anyone else touched him like this and now Steve's hand is moving faster, gripping tighter and jesus holy shit christ it's good it's _so fucking good_ \--

And Steve's other hand is on him, this one dry and warm, running up his thigh again in soft strokes that mimic the movement of his other hand on Bucky's dick. The contrast of gentle-warm and rough-fast-tight scrambles something in his brain, the dueling sensations sparking a beat of panic in his chest, overwhelming and dissonant as he tries to focus on them simultaneously. 

The panic spreads like ink in water, blooming beneath his ribs until he can barely concentrate on either sensation. All he can feel is his pulse pounding sickly in his ears, his throat, his fingers. His breath catches and oh no no _no_ fuck, it's happening, he can't--

He's going to ruin it and be stuck living out this ridiculous sisyphean parody for the rest of his life. His only choice will be to become a eunuch and move to Borneo, become the dickless god of basket weaving and transcend this fucking hellscape.

"Eyes on me," Steve says, his voice sharp enough to cut through the panic, like a rope tied to something essential inside of Bucky, jerking him back to awareness. "You with me?"

"Yeah." Bucky blows out a breath. "I mean, yes sir. ‘m okay. Just--can you maybe talk to me?"

Steve's smile is quick and sharp as he squeezes Bucky's dick harder, moves his other hand higher to stroke over the tight skin of his balls. "You want me to tell you what a pretty cock you have, James? Leaking all over my hand, I barely need any lube. You're so hungry for it, aren't you?"

"Shit," Bucky breathes, unsure if it's the touch or the words that makes the heat unspool in his gut. "Yeah." 

"I'm gonna put a cock ring on you in a minute, sweetheart," Steve continues in that soft, intense voice, his eyes never leaving Bucky's. "You're gonna get so big and swollen I won't even be able to get my fingers all the way around you."

The mental image makes Bucky's stomach clench, and Steve's fingers dip lower, beneath his balls to press firmly against his perineum, rubbing hard in time with his fist around Bucky's cock and holy _shit_ it's like a transformer's blown in his brain, sparks spilling down his spine, crackling through his blood, lighting little fires under his skin and jesus it's so good he's gonna he thinks he really might--

Steve stops. Bucky whimpers as the sensation ebbs, leaving behind nothing but the throb of his pulse in his dick. "Fuck," Bucky gasps, dropping his head back against the bench. "I think I might really have come that time."

Steve shrugs. "Yeah, maybe." 

"God, you're such an asshole." Bucky laughs.

"You got no idea," Steve says with a smirk. "I wasn't lying about the cock ring, though. If you're up for it?"

Bucky only has a vague idea of what a cock ring is, but Steve holds up something that looks like a black rubber zip tie threaded through a bead and it looks harmless enough. 

"Um, sure," Bucky says. Whatever it takes to get Steve's hands back on him, honestly. 

He can't get a good angle to see what Steve is doing; he can hear the wet sound of lube being spread over the rubber, then feels Steve gently grasp his balls and pull them away from his body. He only really feels cool wet on his skin when Steve places the rubber strap behind his balls, but then he sits back to look at Bucky while presumably running the bead up the ends of the strap to tighten the loop and--

"Jesus," Bucky grits out as the little rubber noose digs into him, squeezing tight so he can feel the blood throbbing like a drumbeat as he watches his cock swell, the purple-red flush climbing up his shaft. It's like all the blood in his body is in his dick, and all his nerves too and he can't focus on anything but the ache that flares with every beat of his pulse.

Steve flicks his shaft gently with the back of a finger, grinning as Bucky sucks air between his teeth. 

"Sensitive, huh?" 

"Very," he growls. 

Steve flicks him again, harder this time. "Where are your manners? I gave you something nice, and this is how you treat me?" He tsks like a disappointed librarian and Bucky wants to punch him. Or maybe just beg him to touch him. 

"Thank you, sir," Bucky says through clenched teeth. 

"That's better," Steve says.

He pours a generous amount of lube in his palm and closes his fist, warming it up. His other hand runs over Bucky's thighs, skimming over his swollen balls, drifting over the sensitive skin of his abdomen where his shirt has rucked up. It feels better than it should; he's so hard these soft touches without intent should be frustrating, but instead they're lighting a warm glow inside him that makes his breath catch and his blood slow, heavy and lazy as he drifts. 

Steve inverts his wet fist over Bucky's cock, thumb and forefinger making a tight ring for the head to push through, squeezing rhythmically all the way down his shaft and a horrible, embarrassing noise tears out of Bucky's throat at the pressure on his swollen, sensitive cock. He's going to die. He's going to come. There's no way he won't, he can already feel it building, the heavy ache in his balls, the small of his back. He wants to rut up into Steve's fist, wants it faster, harder, he's desperate for it, desperate to get there. 

Distantly he can hear the chains clinking against the metal of the bench, knows he's squirming and straining, can hear the deep rumble of Steve's voice but can't make out the words, knows he's making desperate little moans on every breath and he doesn't care it doesn't matter it feels so good and--

"You close, James?" Steve's calm, deep voice cuts into the haze of wanting.

"Mmhmm," Bucky moans, too far gone for words. 

Steve's hand pulls away, and without even thinking about it, Bucky's free hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist to bring it back. "Steve, please," he begs, breathless and whining. "Please ‘m so close, I need it so bad."

"James," Steve snaps. His voice is hard and sharp as he yanks his hand out of Bucky's grip and slaps his inner thigh hard, so close to his balls Bucky would have flinched away if he had the leverage. The slap is a bright flare of pain, the hard pinch that follows driving a deep ache beneath it and Bucky feels strung between the two poles of pain.

"You were being so good for me, what happened?" Steve says, and god that fucking voice. So deep. So full of disappointment. His brows are furrowed, his lips pursed and Bucky feels the weight of his displeasure settling over him, driving out the warmth. 

"I'm sorry," Bucky gasps, embarrassed and shaken and aching and terrified Steve will stop for good now. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, please don't--"

"Quiet," Steve says, and he leans forward to grab something from behind the bench. It brings his face so close to Bucky's cock, close enough he imagines he can feel Steve's breath and oh god what would it be like to feel Steve's mouth on him, those full red lips spreading over him when he's this swollen and tight. _Fuck._ His dick twitches at the thought, bobbing in the air and blurting out wet from the tip. 

There's a clanking noise and Steve is bringing up the other cuff, grasping Bucky's flesh wrist and wrapping it around him. The leather is cool against his sweat-damp skin, and he never much thought of his wrist as sensitive, but the press of Steve's fingers and the pressure of the cuff light him upside, make his skin tingle and his blood fizz. 

Steve's still got him. Bucky exhales. Okay. It's okay.

Steve grips his chin, his long fingers digging into the hinge of Bucky's jaw, making discordant sparks flare in his head. "Remind me, James. Who's in charge?"

"You are, Steve," Bucky says, his tongue feeling awkward and heavy in his mouth. Steve raises a brow. "I mean, sir. You're in charge, sir."

"That's right," he says, gentling his grip and running his fingers over the curve of Bucky's jaw and Bucky feels a delirious surge of warmth at the soft touch, the faint praise. Distantly, he wonders what the fuck is happening to him, why he's melting like candy in Steve's palm. But it doesn't matter right now, with Steve's hands on him. Nothing else matters but this.

"And what are you supposed to do when you get close?" 

"Tell you, sir," Bucky sighs, wanting to push his face into Steve's touch, arch like a cat under his hand and purr. 

"Good," Steve says, his voice as soft as his touch now. "You're so good, James." 

He runs his thumb along Bucky's jaw, fitting it to the divot in his chin, bringing it up to trace the shape of Bucky's mouth. Bucky parts his lips automatically, whining softly when Steve presses his thumb to his bottom lip and then pushes inside his mouth. Bucky closes his lips around it and sucks softly, his eyelids fluttering closed at the taste and the pressure against his tongue. Steve's finger tastes sharp, like Bucky's cock and the remnants of lube, but beneath it all is Steve, salt and skin. 

Bucky makes a disappointed noise when Steve removes his thumb and trails the wet pad of it down his chin, over his throat. He presses his palm to Bucky's chest and pushes him to sit back against the bench and rubs his thumb against Bucky's nipple through the thin fabric of his undershirt. 

" _Oh_ ," Bucky says on a shaky breath, and Steve does it again, scratching his thumbnail over the hard point of his nipple this time and making Bucky jerk against the restraints. There's a hot line running from his chest to his cock and Bucky wants to curl himself over that feeling, press a hand to his belly and hold it inside him forever. Just this, right here. 

And Steve's other hand slips over his cock, warm and wet, stroking him lazily, the hand on his chest drifting to the other nipple, pinching gently and Bucky feels like he's drowning in sensation, a continuous feedback loop between the places Steve is touching. Touching harder now, stroking faster, tighter, his hand moving from his nipple to grip at his hair, giving one sharp yank so Bucky'll open his eyes. 

"Watch," Steve says, his voice gone gritty. "Watch my hand on your cock, James. See how big you are now? So swollen and thick for me. How does it feel?"

Bucky looks down to see Steve's elegant fingers wrapped tight around his cock, the head shiny and purple as it emerges from his fist, the slit leaking so much slick it's running over Steve's fingers and oh fuck he wants it, he wants to see Steve's fingers coated in his come, wants it so bad.

"It feels good," Bucky moans. "It's feels so fucking good--ah, oh god. _Please._ Sir, please. I'm so close--don't!"

His body sags against the bench when Steve lets go, and he feels like he might cry. Steve gives him a minute to calm down, and then fists his dick again, hard and fast, wet sounds and Bucky's desperate _uh uh uh_ s filling the room. 

"Close," Bucky cries, his body bowing into Steve's touch, willing him to keep going. 

He doesn't. 

"Oh, don't cry, sweet thing," Steve croons as he coats his hand in more lube. "You're almost there, you can do it. It's going to feel so good."

Bucky hadn't even realized he was crying, but he can feel the wet tracks on his cheeks now, taste the salt on his lips. He's so tired. How long has he been here? He'd turn his head to look at the window, but he doesn't have the energy for anything that isn't related to his cock and whether or not it's going to get to come at any point. Will he die here? Expire in Captain Come Control's office slash sex dungeon? His tombstone will read: _Here lies James Buchanan Barnes, dick-murdered by a sadist. Avenge him._ His ma'll be so proud.  


Steve's hand on him again, hot wet tight. Another hand, cupping his balls, kneading them gently. Bucky wants to spread his legs wide, wants to bring up his knees. He feels shameless. Unspooled. Anything, give him anything. He needs it. Needs all of it.

Steve stops. Bucky takes a breath. Steve starts again. Stops. Starts. Nothing. Then everything. Nothing again. Again. Again. Again. 

Stop.

Start.

Stop.  
Start.

Stop.Start.  
_stopstartstopstartstopstart_

"I can't," Bucky cries. "I can't please--fuck, sir please. Let me have it. I need it. Please. Just--uh uh--no no, fuck!"

"Of course you can do it," Steve says. He waits a beat and then glides just two fingers over the head of his cock, massaging at that spot just below that makes Bucky's eyes cross while the fingers of his other hand press insistently over the sensitive skin of his perineum. 

"You can do anything I tell you, James. Because you are a very. Good. Boy." Steve punctuates his words with gentle taps against Bucky's hole, and his whole body seizes around the feeling. The ache of it bores its way under his skin, crawling up his spine and oh god now Steve's rubbing gentle circles over his hole and Bucky arches into it, wanting to push against Steve's fingers, filthy and shameless with it. 

"I'm close!" Bucky nearly shouts, wanting to be good, terrified of Steve stopping. "Please, uh oh god, _please_."

"Okay, sweetheart," Steve says, pressing more firmly and squeezing his cock so tight in his fist Bucky thinks he might die. "You've been so good. Come whenever you're ready."

Steve barely gets the words out before Bucky's vision is whiting out and his muscles are locking and that ache is spreading heavy and hot down his spine, up his legs to his epicenter. And for just a second Bucky feels nothing, suspended in a blank space, quiet like those moments when he'd been lining up the perfect shot, waiting for that beat between his breaths when everything in him went still and he didn't know anything except the target in his scope and the trigger under his finger. He'd close his eyes and make the shot, and the world would come exploding back into focus.

Like that, except it's Bucky who's exploding this time, all over Steve's hand as he keeps stroking him, milking him, wrenching every last bit of sensation from Bucky's body and Bucky is crying, deep racking sobs as he feels it all drain out of him--the stress, the guilt, the pain of the last two years. He feels it ebb away--or maybe that's him, drifting away on a gentle wave. 

Everything quiet.  
Everything good. 

Awareness comes back all at once, and Bucky realizes Steve isn't touching him anymore, but he's still gasping and shaking. He feels a little cracked and broken, like he has bones made of blown glass, skin made of static. He feels like a soap bubble, empty and transparent. Exposed, like Steve could look all the way inside him if he wanted, see through to the soft red meat of him. 

Steve is unbuckling the cuffs on his ankles, and he's glad for a moment to compose himself before he has to look at his face. He feels--god, he feels so good but holy shit. That was. So much. He doesn't even leave his sessions with Sam this wrung out--and there's a thought. Therapy via handjob. Could work. 

A laugh bubbles out of him--okay, no, it's a giggle. It's a high, hysterical giggle and he's embarrassed but he can't stop it. He closes his mouth, tries to hold his breath to make it stop, but his eyes bulge and his chest creaks with the force of it trying to get out.

Steve sits back up and quirks an amused brow. "You good there, James?"

He nods, eyes streaming with hysterical tears, and tries to calm himself down. "Yes, thank you, sir."

Steve grins. "You forgot that earlier, but I gave you a pass due to emotional breakdown."

Bucky's face heats and he ducks his head, the giggles dissipating. "Sorry, it was just--"

"A lot, I know. You aren't the first, trust me. It's okay. Means I did my job well." He undoes the last cuff, and Bucky sighs with relief, stretching out his arms and legs, arching his back to work out the kinks. He's going to be sore tomorrow. Right now he can't barely feel his feet. 

"You okay?" Steve asks, his hand reaching out to take Bucky's flesh wrist and rubbing little circles over the faint red marks there. 

"‘m good," Bucky sighs, but takes his hand back. He feels a little weird about how good Steve's touch still feels, even now that he's come. He wants to curl up in a sunny patch and have Steve run his hands all over him. Just to feel them. Just that, nothing more.

But he's pretty sure he didn't pay for the Pet Bucky Like a Cat package. 

"Why don't you go clean yourself up?" Steve suggests, his voice businesslike again. "Bathroom's the first door down the hall."

"‘kay," Bucky says, getting to his feet and feeling a little drunk. Steve stands up and reaches out a hand to steady him, and it strikes Bucky how much smaller Steve is than him. It's a weird moment of cognitive dissonance; Steve has a _presence_ that fills the room, fills Bucky's head. He understands how Steve's deep, resonant voice is possible now. It makes sense. It fits. 

***

Steve's sitting at the kitchen table again when Bucky comes out of the bathroom. It feels weird to be dressed again, his clothes feel so heavy, his boots like cement block on his feet. He can't wait to go home and pass out. It feels like he was on that bench, straining and sweating for at least six hours, though his phone tells him it was barely forty five minutes. 

"Hey," Steve says with smile, beckoning him over to the table. "Come drink some water and eat a little bit. I want to do a quick debrief with you before I cut you loose."

Bucky slides into the chair across from him, and takes a long drink from the water bottle Steve'd placed on the table for him. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was; the water tastes so good, like it's been days since he's had a drink. Steve pushes a plate of cookies toward him, and Bucky's eyes light up. 

"Oh my god," he moans when he bites into one. "Did you make these? Holy shit." The cookies taste like magic, the sweetness so sharp and bright it seems to zing straight through to his bloodstream. 

Steve smiles fondly at him. "Can't claim the credit, unfortunately. My roommate's a big stress baker. Have some more, we have literally bags of them."

Bucky grabs another and shoves almost the entire thing in his face. So good. "I know a guy like that too, sometimes he brings them into work to share and it's the best." Steve doesn't need to know that by 'a guy like that' Bucky means his therapist. Sam makes the most amazing snickerdoodles Bucky's ever had. Every month or so he'll bring a bag to one of their sessions and Bucky will talk with his mouth full and spew crumbs like a savage through the whole hour.

"So," Steve says when Bucky pauses to take another drink of water. "Now that your cheeks aren't bulging like a starving hamster, how you feeling?"

"Fuck you, man." Bucky laughs. "I'm feeling like I just came for the first time in two years. I feel fucking amazing. Thank you, seriously. You might have single-handedly saved my sanity."

Steve barks out a laugh and the sound lights up Bucky's insides. Shit, he feels high. Endorphins and a metric ton of relief making him soft and sappy. 

"Are you fucking serious? That's the joke you go with? Terrible."

Bucky's grin is so wide his cheeks are aching with it. "You scrambled my brains, punk. What do you want from me."

Steve opens his mouth and then closes it very quickly, as though he thought better of what he was about to say. He clears his throat. "I expect better out of you, James. That's C-minus work at best, come on."

"I just came all over your hand, I think you can call me Bucky now."

Steve makes a face. "Bucky? Like, as a name? No. That's ridiculous. I refuse."

"Jesus, you're the worst," Bucky laughs. "It's a family name, okay? Only my mother calls me James, and that's when I'm in trouble."

"Yeah, well, you look like trouble to me, _James_ ," Steve says, his eyes flitting to Bucky's mouth briefly. "So, anyway--back to the point, you good? Anything you didn't like? Anything I should do differently next time--I mean, if you decide you want a next time."

"No, it was all good. I mean, it was horrible, don't get me wrong. You're a real deal sadist, you know that—what?" Bucky asks when Steve cracks up.

"You're adorable," Steve says with a grin. "That's all."

Bucky blushes and shrugs, pleased even though he doesn't quite know what Steve means by that. "But seriously, wow. Your hands. I've been jerking myself off for a solid fifteen years and you got moves I didn't even know were possible. Bravo, man, you've turned handjobs into an artform."

Steve rolls his eyes. "Yeah well, glad this kind of art actually pays. You gonna be okay to get home?"

Bucky shrugs. "Yeah, I'm fine. I just need to eat my weight in curry and then pass out for a year."

"Solid plan," Steve says, getting up from the table. Bucky takes that as his cue and gets up too.

"Do me a favor and text me when you get home? You seem alright, but I like to be sure with first-timers," Steve says.

"Bossy," Bucky says, but agrees. 

Steve walks him to the door, and Bucky feels a wave of uncertainty hit him. Should he shake Steve's hand? It feels a little formal after coming all over it not twenty minutes ago. Hug? He can't deny he'd like to, but that seems a little too...unprofessional for what is essentially a business arrangement, which he keeps forgetting. In the end, he doesn't need to worry about it, because Steve takes care of it. Of course. 

Steve opens the door for Bucky, and when Bucky steps through and turns to offer his hand, Steve already has his up.

 _Oh, we're high-fiving_ , Bucky thinks. Like the middle ground between a handshake and a hug, cool. He raises his hand to slap Steve's in a friendly _thanks for the orgasm, buddy_ high-five, but halfway there his brain kicks in and begins to process the situation. The angle of Steve's hand is wrong. High-fiving is not really a thing. This has been a terrible mistake.

He tries to stop his arm, but his hand is already there. And for some reason, his brain's solution to this horrible nightmare is to just...gently press his palm to Steve's, instead of slapping it. Because that is more normal. 

He meets Steve's wide, confused eyes and feels his mouth twitch. "So you were waving, huh? Not high-fiving?"

"Oh my god, you absolute _nerd_ ," Steve says, doubling over with laughter.

Later, Bucky will be embarrassed about this. It'll be one of the things he'll think about at two am, when insomnia's getting the best of him. It'll be a moment that will haunt him for the rest of his life. 

But right now? He feels too good to care. The sun is setting over Brooklyn, he's got a working dick again, and he made a cute little sadist laugh. Life is good.


	2. Captain's Log

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve is still laughing when he closes the door after James leaves—because a high five, in the year of our lord two thousand and eighteen. What an idiot. An absolutely adorable idiot, but still. An idiot. And Steve might even still be smiling when he shoves his pants down and grabs his dick, but that quickly dissolves into whatever his face looks like when he goes cross-eyed with relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [anoneknewmoose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoneknewmoose/pseuds/anoneknewmoose) for reading this and listening to me whine about how hard it is to try to continue a oneshot months later. 
> 
> Happy 100th birthday, Steeben! I got you some feelings.

Steve is still laughing when he closes the door after James leaves—because a high five, in the year of our lord two thousand and eighteen. What an idiot. An absolutely adorable idiot, but still. An idiot. And Steve might even still be smiling when he shoves his pants down and grabs his dick, but that quickly dissolves into whatever his face looks like when he goes cross-eyed with relief. He's been hard for almost two hours—since James lumbered in like a beautiful, brick shithouse-shaped baby bear, and blushed and squirmed at Steve's kitchen table like no one had ever asked him what he liked before. God. Steve closes his eyes, picturing the shape of James' mouth when he panted and begged, the feel of his cock in his hand, how it'd thrummed and jumped and pulsed for him, the way he'd moaned Steve's name—

"Fuck,” Steve groans, cupping his palm to catch his release and panting. He stays there for a moment, his eyes closed and his chest heaving, until he realizes he's slumped against the front door with his dick out and a handful of jizz in broad fucking daylight on a Thursday afternoon. As one does.

Well, he's not saying he's never ended a session by furiously beating off before, but it's been awhile. Years, even, when it'd still been a fun and lucrative hobby to get himself through school and not his actual job. And even then he'd had the self control to keep his pants on until he got somewhere private. He's a professional, for shit's sake.

Or, at least he tries to be. Considering his business model is Making Dudes Cry For Fun And Profit, he's not always successful. But one thing he learned when he first started out in the wild world of sex work is that yes, it's sexual, and yes it's intimate by default, but it's never personal. People don't seek him out because they want Steve, they just want the service the Captain provides. At the end of the day, whether he enjoys himself during a session or not—and let's be honest, he often does—is irrelevant. It's not about him, and he prefers it that way.

Steve's been pretty good at keeping that line drawn in fat black sharpie, but he has to admit, today's session with James tested his resolve a little bit. He's never had to resist the urge to touch and stroke and kiss on a client before. Steve's not sure what's different about James—he's pretty, that's true, but Steve sees a lot of hot guys in his line of work and has the videos to prove it. James is just so fucking sweet. He lit up for Steve's praise, melted under his hands like he'd never been touched before—he'd been so uncertain at first, tense and awkward, but as soon as Steve'd put hands on him he'd become so soft and sweet, needy and shamelessly greedy for it. And after all the shit James' obviously gone through, to give himself over so completely? To trust enough to go down for Steve like that? Fuck. That goes straight to Steve's head. Both of them.

"Shit,” he mutters to himself, making a move to rub his hand over his face and then stopping abruptly when he remembers that yep, he sure does still have a hand full of come. "Jesus christ, Rogers."

***

Steve's sitting at the table like a civilized adult—pants on and everything—when Sam gets home twenty minutes later. He's been trying to get his shit together enough to write out his post-session notes with some level of professionalism, but so far all he's managed is something that should probably be written in pink glitter pen with hearts dotting the eyes, and a half-formed sketch of James' mouth in the upper right corner. So. Great.

 

[](https://i.imgur.com/vBqE8Cj.jpg)

_  
_

_[Image description: spiral notebook page reading:_  
_Initial Session - James B._  
_ Pre-Session Notes_  
_Referral from Widow (roommate). Veteran with some medical/trauma issues that have impacted his ability to orgasm. To-do: refer to notes on James R.; similar experiences/methods._  
_ Checklist:_  
_\- Safe word: broccoli_  
_\- Penetration: TBD; not today_  
_\- Restraints: yes (soft)_  
_\- Ext. Stim.: yes_  
_\- Pain: light (no face) note: has enjoyed spanking_  
_\- Verbal yes (no humiliation) note: responds well to praise_  
_\- Allergies: none_  
_\- Other notes: SI prosthetic left arm, scarring shoulder & torso (no pain)_  
_\- Recording release: not offered_  
_ Post-Session Notes:_  
_~~He is so~~ 40m light session O-1, manual only. Restraints legs and left arm. Very tense and nervous at first but loosened up quickly. Broke protocol once, responded well to discipline (light slap/pinch on inner thigh—no marks ~~he will bruise easily, I think. Skin pinks up so~~ Don't get the impression he's played much before, but he goes down so quickly with touch and praise. ~~He lights up for it, wants to be so good it's bea~~ Very sensitive—possibly touch-starved? Mention to Widow? (Ask S. for opinion.) ~~I hope he comes back.~~ ]_

"Hey,” Sam says, coming into the kitchen and making a beeline for the refrigerator. He grabs a beer and waggles it at Steve in the universal code for _want one?_

"Yeah, thanks,” Steve says. Because honestly, alcohol can only improve this situation.

"Rough day at the office?” Sam asks when he slides a bottle to Steve and sits down at the chair across the table. He pops the top and takes a long pull from the bottle, looking at Steve with expectant eyebrows.

Sam is surprisingly cool about the fact that Steve "works from home.” And yeah, part of it is that it's temporary until Riley's back from his tour and settled into his desk job at the Pentagon, and probably also the fact that Steve wouldn't have bothered charging him rent if Sam hadn't insisted. But even when they'd just met, Sam had barely blinked an eye at the fact that Steve jerks guys off for a living. He hadn't even asked the usual roundabout ‘who hurt you' questions, which probably cemented their friendship forever.

Most people tend to assume there's some tragic backstory responsible for Steve being a sex worker, but the truth of it is: it's easy money, and he likes it. If he can get paid absolutely ridiculous sums of money for something he and his clients emphatically enjoy, why the fuck not. He makes people feel good for a living, and there aren't a lot of quote unquote respectable jobs that can claim the same. Just because his job happens to involve touching peoples' dicks doesn't make it shameful or weird. Fuck that puritanical bullshit.

He makes sure to get explicit consent for everything he does, and that everyone is being safe. He even offers discounts on his rates if people go to the free clinic over on Flatbush and leave a donation, because his mom was a nurse and once she realized Steve was sexually active and his preferences ran to Genitals: All of Them, had given him the Sexual Wellness and You: How Condoms and Consent are Revolutionizing the World of Your Mom Not Beating Your Ass on a near weekly basis. And if that talk had often devolved to Ronald Fucking Reagan: May That Murderous Bastard Burn in Goddamn Hell Forever Amen, well at least mutual righteous anger was better than his mom explaining the symptoms of gonorrhea in excruciating detail. With pictures.

Thinking of his mother sends a twin-tipped arrow of pain and nostalgia through him. It's been nearly five years now, but he can't help wishing desperately that she still lived in that shitty apartment on Leaman, that he could go over and flop down on the puke green couch she refused to replace out of pure spite and tell her all about his stupid crush on his stupid cute stupid pretty client.

But well, Sam Wilson, with his baking and his cleaning and his active listening skills probably qualifies as someone's platonic ideal of a maternal figure. So. Close enough.

"New client today,” Steve says.

"Was he a dick?” Sam asks flatly. It's not exactly a rare occurrence for a new guy to size him up and decide his videos are false advertising, but Steve usually has them crying and apologizing within twenty minutes so it doesn't faze him much.

"No,” Steve says. "He was just….cute.” It's probably ridiculous to call a six-foot-something stacked to shit guy who could bench press six of Steve cute, but there's no other word to describe him. Steve's brain supplies him with the image of James' shy eyes blinking up at him and away, and the way he pulled his bottom lip into his mouth every time he was unsure. God. It's not like Steve hasn't thoroughly explored his thing for beefcakes who still go down for him like a ton of subby bricks, but James' combination of physical strength and vulnerability feels like they were designed by the devil himself to test Steve specifically.

"And that's what's got your scribbling in your journal like a moody fourteen year old?” Sam asks. "What's the problem? Cute boys are literally your job.”

Steve takes a long pull from his beer, trying to figure out how to put words to the feeling churning up his guts. "I don't know. Didn't feel like a job this time, I guess. It was...fun. Hot.” He shakes his head. Not that his job isn't fun—it is. It flips that light switch in him every time. But it _is_ a job. Repetition has dulled those nerve endings, making it feel like a flickering bulb instead of high beams most days.

Sam's brows migrate to his hairline and a smug grin splits his face. "You like him.”

Steve shrugs, twisting his bottle of beer between his hands. "He was sweet, and funny. He did this thing—”

"Whoa,” Sam interrupts. "I do not want any details, man. You know that.”

Steve rolls his eyes. "Wasn't going to give you any, asshole.”

"So are you going to ask him out?” Sam asks.

Steve makes a face. "I don't date clients.”

"You don't date at all,” Sam says, pointing at him with his bottle of beer. "And no,” Sam continues when Steve opens his mouth to argue. "Your semi-annual drunk hook ups don't count.”

"Regardless,” Steve says. "He's a client, so it doesn't matter.”

"So make him not a client,” Sam says, slowly like he's trying to teach a toddler trigonometry. "Invite him out for a beer, give him his next mean hand job for free or something, I don't know. It's not like you have to submit a request to the Big Gay Asshole, Inc. HR department.”

Steve stares at him flatly. "Phrasing, Wilson.”

Sam tips his head in acknowledgment. "Fine, but keep it in your back pocket in case you ever go legit.”

"Oh sure, because the IRS will never red flag Big Gay Asshole, LLC,” Steve says. "And I am legit. I pay taxes and everything.”

"So Big Gay Asshole would be a problem but everyone's cool with Captain Come Control?”

"Don't be stupid, Wilson,” Steve says easily. "As far as the government is concerned, I'm the Brooklyn Handy Man.”

Sam chokes on a swallow of beer. "Of course you are,” he says, wiping his mouth. "But my point, you pedantic fuck, is that it doesn't have to be complicated. Ask this dude out. The worst that happens is he says no.”

Sam makes it sound so easy, but he and Riley have practically been married since kindergarten. He might think he's smooth as hell, but he hasn't had to actually put himself out there and work for it in years. And granted, neither has Steve. He hasn't dated since before his mom died, when he put all his energy, sexual and otherwise, into becoming the Captain. He didn't have anything left over for trying to convince someone to like him for something other than the way he touches their dick.

And James is sweet, and cute and funny and hot as the sidewalk in June, but he also came to Steve—came to _the Captain_ —for a very specific purpose. And now that he's hopefully on his way to making that masturbatory victory lap, he may not even want another session with the Captain, let alone a date with Steve. Better to leave it alone, save them both a lot of awkwardness.

"Actually, there's something I wanted to ask you,” he says, hoping appealing to Sam's professional expertise will get the focus off of the non-existent possibility of him dating James. "He's a vet who's been through some pretty rough stuff, it sounds like.” Steve watches Sam's attention focus and narrow and tries not to let the victory show on his face. "And it seems like he has a good support system, but when I touched him, it seemed to really affect him. Like he wasn't used to it."

Sam nods. "Yeah, that happens to a lot of them, their PTSD can prevent them from seeking out touch, shy away from it to the point where the people around them are afraid to reach out in case it upsets them. It can get really isolating for them, especially for those that have any kind of medical trauma on top of the general fuckery of PTSD, where their brain starts to conflate any kind of touch with pain or stress.”

Something painful twists behind Steve's ribs. Is that how James feels? "Well, I'm just wondering...should I mention something to his roommate? She's the one who referred him to me. I just wasn't sure if it was…” he casts around for the right word. "Appropriate, I guess.”

"I don't know, man. I guess if they're close enough that she's referring him to you it wouldn't be overstepping anything to tell her you think he's touch-starved and could use a little affectionate back patting or whatever,” Sam says, and takes a sip of beer. "But on the other hand, if they're not already on that level, telling her might create some awkwardness between them if she tries to force something neither of them are comfortable with, and mess with what could be one of this guy's only safe spaces.”

Steve nods. "So probably better to keep my mouth shut?”

"Yeah, probably,” Sam says. "I know that's not your strong suit, but hey—if you ask the guy out instead of just jerking him off, you can give him all the touch he needs.”

Leave it to Sam to circle back to that. Asshole. So Steve tells him the thing he's been turning over in his head since he got a good look at James' arm. "He's—” he starts and then stops. "He's got one of Tony's prosthetics.” Which is a roundabout way of saying _he might be one of yours._

"Aw man,” Sam says. "Don't do this to me. I do not want to know this. Come on. That's like rule number one.”

Actually, it's rule number two, right behind no bodily fluids in the common areas, but Steve resists pointing that out. "Hey, I'm not saying anything else,” Steve says. "I'm just putting it out there.”  
They've never crossed streams before—that they know of, anyway—and it's not like Sam is the only one who referred vets to Tony for his prosthetic trial program. Steve thinks Tony has something like ten subjects, and only two or three of them came from Sam. And look, Steve's an artist not a mathematician, but that sounds like that's pretty good odds James isn't one of Sam's patients. Even so, he wants to do what he can to protect James from a potentially awkward situation.

"So just in case, I'll let you know if he comes by again, and you can just make sure not to come home until I give you the all clear.”

Sam frowns down at his beer. "Yeah, okay,” he says. And then sighs. "Okay,” he says again, visibly deleting the last five minutes from his mental record. "I'm going to make some cookies.”

"Of course you are,” Steve mutters. Because Sam Wilson's stress response is always to combine flour and sugar and butter and bake until he feels better. And given that his job is counseling some pretty fucked up vets, and that his job before that made him a pretty fucked up vet himself, Sam is always baking. And Steve isn't ungrateful, okay? He likes cookies just as much as the next guy. It's just that he's definitely had dreams about having to swim through piles of cookies to get to the front door, like some kind of nightmare Keebler Elf version of Scrooge McDuck.

"How about oatmeal raisin?” Steve suggests just to be an asshole, and then grins when Sam levels a glare at him.

"Get out of my kitchen, white devil,” Sam says, turning to grab the flour out of the pantry. "Oatmeal raisin,” he mutters. "I said cookies, not granola, Rogers.”

***

It's not until much later, when Steve is getting into bed that he remembers to check his phone. He has two texts, both from James.

_James: **Home now - thanks again for giving me a hand today.**  
James: **Can I make another appointment?**_

Steve resists the urge to fist pump, but he can't help the grin that spreads over his face. God, he's so fucking cute.

_Steve: **How is it possible your jokes are getting worse?**_

James starts typing almost immediately.

_James: **What? I thought I was really pulling it off.**_

Steve groans at the terrible pun. _**I'm going to add these up and keep you on edge a minute longer for each one next time**_

_James: **Oh come on, don't jerk my chain, Steve**_

_Steve: **Next Thursday, same time? Let's see how much deeper you can dig this hole between now and then.**_

_James: **Don't threaten me with a good time, mister.**  
James: **For the record, I resisted the hole joke you left open for me. I want points for that.**_

Steve has to fight the urge to press his face to his pillow and scream like a teenage girl at a boy band concert. He has no armor against this kind of weapons-grade cuteness. Why is this happening to him.

_Steve: **No points awarded for being a decent human being. I'm not running a charity.**  
Steve: **3:00pm next Thursday. Don't be late.**_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next and final chapter should be up in a few days. Thanks to everyone who asked for more smol steve the cupcakey sadist and bucky the subby brick shithouse. Hopefully this hit the mark for you. 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](https://steebadore.tumblr.com/) if you're into that sort of thing, and will be doing Kink Bingo soon. You can see my squares [here](https://steebadore.tumblr.com/post/175173683585), and if you have any prompt ideas I'm all ears...


	3. Controlled Release 2: This Time It's Personal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote a really long metaphor about what it was like to write this chapter, but it turns out it was just a lot of words that didn't really go anywhere so i deleted it and actually that's the best metaphor for what it was like writing this chapter anyway. 
> 
> thanks as always to [anoneknewmoose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoneknewmoose/pseuds/anoneknewmoose) for being excellent and betaing this instead of doing her homework. <3

Bucky wakes as he does most mornings, with eight pounds of fur and razorblades standing on his right nipple, and his dick hard. (For the record, those two things are unrelated.) He briefly considers shoving Meatloaf out of the way and trying to rub one out, but she's slowly sinking her claws into his chest in a way that signals she's been trying to wake him up for at least thirty seconds, and he'll get no peace if he doesn't get up immediately and get her breakfast. 

Besides, it's Thursday, which means it's Steve Day, so what's the point in trying for what would probably be a sub-par orgasm anyway? It's not that last week's session with Steve ruined him for all other methods of coming, it's just that he hasn't tried very hard to top it. Or tried at all, actually. He'd woken up full of renewed hope last Friday morning and had given himself a pep talk as he'd shoved his pajama pants down and gripped himself— _hard dick, full balls, can splooge_ —but it'd been just like all the other times he'd tried to jerk off. The better it felt, the closer he came to feeling that orgasmic tingle, the more panicked he got that it wouldn't happen. So he'd stopped, figuring he'd try it again later. But so far, he hasn't. 

Maybe he's just a little gun-shy, maybe it's just that he's tired of disappointing himself, but what does it matter when he's off to see the Dick Wizard anyway? If Bucky can't manage to give himself any orgasms, at least he knows Steve is capable of taking them from him by brute force. And thank god. He's averaged about two boners an hour since last week, and while the urge to take care of them has obviously crossed his mind, he'd prefer coming without his brain screaming _don't ruin it don't ruin it don't you fucking ruin it goddamn you_ at him while he does it. 

The one-two punch of anxiety and dread that thought brings is enough to fell his frankly impressive morning wood, and Bucky's brain helpfully supplies the sad trombone soundtrack as he watches the tented blanket over his crotch slowly deflate.

Thanks, brain.

"Ugh." He sighs. And then, "Ack!" as Meatloaf's claws dig their way into his pec pointedly. "Okay, fine, let's get breakfast." 

When he'd first gotten out of the hospital, during the darkest days of his depression, Sam had suggested maybe an emotional support animal. Bucky thought it was a stupid idea—he could barely take care of himself, and Sam wanted to throw a helpless animal into the mix? But a few weeks later, by either fate or conspiracy (and knowing her, Bucky's betting the latter), Tasha had come home with a hoodie full of a spitting, feral hellbeast she'd found shivering on Clint's fire escape. 

"What the fuck?" Bucky asked.

"It reminded me of you," she said, holding the flailing bundle of fur and knives at arm's length. 

"What? Why?" Bucky asked incredulously, turning to plug up the sink and turn the faucet to warm.

"It was sitting there in the rain like an asshole, glaring at me like it was daring me to feel sorry for it," she said, raising her voice to be heard over the yowling as they carefully maneuvered the cat toward the sink, handling it with more care than they'd given armed explosives. 

Later, when they'd changed into dry clothes and were gingerly applying disinfectant to their wounds, Bucky said, "At least you never had to hold me down and bathe me while I tried to murder you."

Natasha raised a brow. "One word: Bogota. No, actually, one more: guaro."

Bucky made a face, fighting down the automatic gag reflex as the phantom scent of anise seemed to crawl up the back of his throat. "I thought we agreed never to speak of that."

Tasha shrugged. "You brought it up," she said, and then spit something in Russian at the cat, who was hiding under the couch and growling. Bucky might not have remembered much of Bogota, but he'd been on the receiving end of that tone often enough to feel a sliver of solidarity with the frightened, angry, and now very quiet cat. 

It'd taken a few weeks for her to get comfortable enough to stop growling like a demon from beneath the furniture any time someone approached. At the internet's advice, Bucky spent a lot of days sitting still as...well, a sniper, in the middle of the living room with chicken baby food smeared on his fingers, trying to be as non threatening as possible and lure her out of hiding. At first he'd felt ridiculous, but somewhere around hour two it'd started to feel good to sit still and calm and make himself feel small and gentle for awhile. It felt even better when, after three long days, the cat finally crawled out from under the TV stand and approached him warily, stopping every couple of steps to sniff and growl at him in warning. 

When she eventually got the courage to get close enough lick tentatively at the pink slime on his fingers, he'd felt a tiny thrill of accomplishment. When two weeks later she'd crawled into his lap and started kneading his thighs with her razor-sharp claws, he felt the kind of surge of emotion he imagined parents did when holding their child for the first time. When a month later she climbed her way up his leg and stole the meatloaf right off his plate, he might have but definitely didn't cry with pride. 

Meatloaf still hates literally everyone but him, and has only a wary respect for Natasha, but she's the reason Bucky gets out of bed even on the mornings it feels impossible—because if he doesn't, she'll make him pay for it. In his own blood. And on the days when he can't manage a full breath through the weight of panic on his chest, she'll stomp on his ribcage and curl up on his breastbone and purr aggressively until he remembers he actually can breathe just fine when he doesn't have eight pounds of calicoed Good Intentions on his chest. 

So Sam and Natasha won that round, he guesses. At least Meatloaf has ruined enough of her shoes that Tasha doesn't get to be smug about it. 

"Hello, Beefcake," Natasha intones ominously when Meatloaf precedes him into the kitchen, trotting past Natasha without acknowledging her presence. Which is really the best either of them could hope for at this point.

Bucky makes a face. "Ugh, no." 

"What is meatloaf if not cake made from beef, Yasha?" Natasha asks innocently in her best _help me, I am poor Russian immigrant who can't English good_ voice, which is absolutely ridiculous given her deftness with language and dialect is the entire reason she makes the mediocre government bucks.

"Why do you live to torture me?" he asks, popping the top on Meatloaf's Fancy Feast and holding his breath until it's plopped fully formed and jiggling in her bowl like the world's most foul jello surprise. She rubs herself against his bare leg in thanks before diving in with a sound horrifically similar to that of mac and cheese being stirred.

"Oh no, I passed that torch to Steve, remember?" Tasha says, because if she can't be smug about the cat she's sure as shit gonna be smug about this. 

Bucky concentrates very hard on pouring a cup of coffee so he can hide the way the corners of his mouth tick up and his cheeks go hot any time Steve is brought up—whether out loud or in his own goddamn head, which is a problem because his thoughts have been approximately 73% Steve related for the last week. And Jesus Christ does he really need to get himself together before he sees him again today. He can't be the crazy fuck who gets giddy about a guy just because he's been the only one to touch his dick with anything resembling intimacy since...well, fuck. Since that day he and PFC Mafi had a little time on their hands in that transport hangar at Bagram. Which was over three years ago. Holy shit. That is a fucking tragedy.

No wonder he's imprinted on Steve. It's like his dick is a newborn duckling and the first thing it saw when it opened its eye was Steve's lubed up fist and decided that was who was in charge of this whole operation. But just because it's game changing for Bucky doesn't make it anything more than transactional for Steve. Steve is a nice guy with amazing hands and a voice like gravel dipped in iron and then rolled in honey, but they're not friends any more than Bucky is friends with his barber or the cute guy at the Not Starbucks who Bucky's never made eye contact with and _definitely_ hasn't had any fantasies about ever. 

Okay maybe that's a bad example.

He remembers being good at casual sex, back when he'd been slim and pretty and had a mouth that knew how to pout and purse and you know, actually speak to other human beings without the rest of him breaking out in a cold sweat. Now he's not so good at casual anything—seems like everything requires at least fifteen minutes of pep talk in a quiet room and maybe twice that with Sam after. But he's got to be able to do this—keep things physical; fun and simple and not get fucked up about it just because someone is touching him for nothing but pleasure for the first time in years. It'll be good practice for the day he's ready to get back out there again, maybe remind himself what it feels like to kiss someone on the mouth.

Fuck, he misses kissing. 

He jumps when Natasha pokes him in the side. "Okay, I just watched the full spectrum of human emotion cross your face," she says. "What's up?"

And the good thing about Tasha is her voice never takes on that specific tone of Gentle Concern everyone else has adopted. Whether she's telling him to fuck off or checking in, it's always the same dry, neutral pitch. It's why he can stand to live with her when the thought of having to go back to his parents' after he got out of the hospital had made him actively wish for death. 

"I'm okay," he mumbles by reflex, then sighs when she gives him a Look. "I was thinking about the last time I had sex."

"Do you mean last week or when you sucked off Mafi in the hangar like a floozy?" she asks, taking a sip of her coffee and blinking at him over the rim with wide, innocent eyes.

"Jesus, Tasha. How do you remember my sex life better than I do?" Bucky says. 

"He came stumbling out like you'd sucked every damn brain cell out his dick, and then you swaggered past wiping your mouth like a neon sign screaming _Ask Me About My Deep Throat_. It was memorable." She shrugs. "And it was the last day I saw you before…" she trails off. 

Before she left on a solo assignment, she doesn't say. Before he got blown to literal pieces, and she'd been under so deep she hadn't known about it until months and a half dozen surgeries later. They've never talked much about it, but he knows it weighs on her. He doesn't like to think about what it'd do to him if their situations were reversed, but she doesn't owe him her guilt. They've pulled each other out of enough hairy situations, from basic to Bogota to Angola and a half dozen other pits of human depravity, and they've both got the scars to prove it. Not that they're allowed to talk about any of them in public. But the point is, their scoreboards are even.

"Quit it," he says, nudging her shoulder, because anyone else might miss the barely perceptible tightening around her eyes and mouth, but anyone else didn't live in her asscrack for eight months in Sirte, so. 

"You." She body checks him into the counter, making his coffee slosh his coffee over his thumb. He reaches out to shove her again, and even though he knows exactly what's coming, he still goes down like a ton of metal bricks when she turns into the movement and kicks his legs out from under him. His arm makes a clanging noise when it collides with the linoleum and Meatloaf growls low in her throat before using his chest as a springboard on her way out of the combat zone.

"Jesus fuck, you asshole," he hisses at her retreating furry, well, asshole.

"Wow, I'm actually embarrassed for you," Natasha says with a feral grin as she reaches down to haul him up off the floor. "You should see if Thor will let you start sparring with me as part of your PT regimen. You're rusty as shit."

Bucky grimaces as she pulls him up, he definitely tweaked something in his shoulder that will make today's PT session even less enjoyable than usual. "Thor's not the boss of me."

"Isn't he?" Natasha says, cocking her head and smirking at him. "Gosh, it's like you have a type or something."

"What, built blondes? I thought that was everyone's type."

"I was thinking more like your thing for cheerful steamrollers. Steve might not be as stacked as Thor, but he's still blonde and pretty and plenty willing to boss you around."

Bucky doesn't even try to fight his grin this time. "Yeah, he is. God bless that little sadist." And then because the opening is _right there_ and he's been resisting the question for days, he asks, "how do you know him anyway?"

"Remember how I met Clint when he was doing a demo scene with another dom at our club? That was Steve," she says. 

Bucky's eyes go wide. "Holy shit, he and Clint fucked?" Is he more curious or jealous? He's not sure. 

Natasha waves a hand, as though it's irrelevant. "Way way back in the day they had a thing, yeah. He was just using Clint as a model to show off a shibari technique that night, nothing really sexual involved. On Steve's part anyway. I can't say the same for myself." She grins at Bucky when he makes a face.

"I don't want to have to picture you guys fucking," he says. "It involves way too much crying."

"Hey, I had to see you jerking it to The 72 Most Dangerous Birds of South America _in my living room_ , James. I get a free pass forever. I could string Clint up by his balls over your bedroom door and make him cry you to sleep to the tune of _Mambo Number Five_ every night if I wanted to, and we'd still never be even."

"Ugh, you're never going to let that go, are you?" Bucky groans. "And fuck you for that earworm too. I know you did that on purpose."

"You're welcome," she says.

***

It takes him nearly an hour to get from Stark Tower to Park Slope—fucking F train—and another twenty minute walk from the station to Steve's, but Bucky's grateful for the time to clear his head between his We Put the PT in PTSD session and the dick appointment he's been looking forward to all week. He breathes deep, pulling the chilly November air into his lungs, imagining it washing away all the lingering stress of the last few hours. The pavement is dark beneath his feet, damp from the afternoon rainstorm, puddles like tiny oil-slicked oceans making rainbows in the dirty street. With every step he feels his anxiety give way to anticipation, the buzzing in his brain fading into something electric, sparking and fizzing through him like soda pop in his veins. By the time he reaches Steve's block he's nearly breathless with it, his chest tight with something other than panic for once. 

He wonders if it will be different with Steve today. More familiar. More intense. _More._ He wants it. He wants everything Steve can give him, wants to grab it all up in his hands, swallow it down in big greedy bites. The touch and the intensity and the way it makes all the tension in him reach its boiling point and then melt away until he's left boneless and breathless, empty but for the pleasure. 

He's had so little pleasure the last few years. Everything he does is _for_ something—therapy, PT, the daily routine he has to stick to in order to be a basic functioning human. And sure, this thing with Steve started as a last ditch effort to get his dick working again, but now it's something else. It's something Bucky is choosing to do solely because it feels good—because it's the _only_ thing that's felt good since before he got injured. Something about that feels both powerful and fragile. Like he can't look directly at it, can't analyze or assess it because it might shatter into pieces. And that's fine. Bucky doesn't want to dissect why Steve's brand of Friendly Neighborhood Sadism works for him, he just wants to feel it. 

Bucky pauses at Steve's stoop, watching the second hand tick on the analog clock on his phone and pushing the buzzer at exactly three o'clock. Steve opens the door before Bucky even has time to lower his hand all the way, and Bucky wonders if he'd been waiting on the other side, staring at his watch too. And then reminds himself not to be a fucking loser weirdo. 

"Hey, James, good to see you again," Steve says with a smile and oh jesus is it possible he forgot how pretty Steve is in just a week? The way Steve's eyes light up and his pink lips curve does terrible, wonderful, awful things to Bucky's insides. 

"Hi," Bucky says in a voice that somehow manages to be both hoarse and high-pitched. _Smooth._

Steve steps aside, giving Bucky enough room to pass through the door but not enough to avoid brushing against his chest on the way. Bucky tries not to shiver at the contact and mostly fails, and then has to try to find some middle ground between stiffening up and falling over when Steve puts a hand on his back to direct him toward the kitchen. Bucky feels it through his shirt like a brand, his skin lighting up under the heat of it, and wonders if this is a normal human reaction to a touch from the guy who's about to jerk you off, or just some special brand of fucked up his brain and body conspired on today. 

"So," Steve says with a knowing smirk as they settle into the kitchen chairs. "How's it been going? Are your wrists as sore as mine usually are at the end of a busy week?"

"No, I—" Bucky frowns as he registers what Steve's said. He glances down at Steve's hands, the strong, thin wrists and the slender fingers, and remembers the way they'd gripped so hard, moved so surely. Yeah, that could be a hell of a repetitive motion injury. "It hurts you?"

Something in Steve's expression softens for just a moment. "It's nothing." He shrugs and then grins again, holding up a curled fist and making a jerk off motion. "I could do this all day." 

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I bet."

"But really, though. You winning any medals in the jerk off olympics?" Steve asks.

Bucky cringes inwardly. "Um. It—well, let's just say the uh, gun is still jammed."

Steve's face falls. "Seriously? Not even once?"

Bucky nods. "Yeah, it's a real tear jerker, I know." Steve rolls his eyes but doesn't laugh at his admittedly terrible joke, and Bucky wonders if he's really disappointed him. "I'm sorry, it's just… it's not that what you did didn't work, I'm just still kind of fucked up and—"

"James," Steve cuts him off, his voice easy. "Don't apologize to me. I know it's not a linear process, I didn't expect to cure you with my magical healing hand job or anything. Just hoped it'd make it a little easier for you. But hey, you'll get there when you get there and I'm happy to keep making you cry in the meantime."

Bucky releases a pent up breath, imagining he's expelling the anxiety along with the air. "Thanks, pal. You're real selfless, you know that?"

"Just trying to use these powers for good," Steve says with a grin, holding up his hands and wiggling his fingers. "Alright, anything new you want to try this week, or anything from last time you're not comfortable with today?" he asks, flipping open the ever-present notebook sitting on the table.

Bucky shrugs. "Everything from last week was good. No complaints."

"You weren't sure about penetration last week. You still want to hold off on that?" Steve asks, looking up from the page. His expression is neutral, not trying to sway Bucky either way, but there's a light of challenge in his eyes that makes Bucky's blood quicken and hum. He remembers suddenly the way it felt to have Steve's fingers stroking over his hole, how sensitive he was, how desperate and empty he'd felt. And he knows Steve's thinking about it too. About the way he'd whined and begged for it. _Fuck._

Bucky's face heats and he ducks his head, watching his finger trace the grain in the wood to hide the want he knows must be plastered all over his face. "I...yeah, we could try that today. If you want."

Steve's voice is sharp. "Look at me when you speak to me, James."

Bucky's head snaps up, heat lancing through his gut at that voice, that tone. _God. Yes._ "Sorry, sir," he says.

"I asked if penetration is something _you_ want," Steve says, not taking his eyes off Bucky's. "So tell me, do you want it?"

"Yes," Bucky says.

"Yes, what?" Steve asks, his mouth curling at the corners. 

"Yes, sir. I want it." And the thing is, it's embarrassing to say it like that, so plainly. He feels hot all over, skin too tight on his bones, blood burning under his skin. But knowing that's exactly what Steve wants? It's like pressing his tongue against an aching tooth; that jangly nerve feeling that doesn't feel good, exactly, but lights up the inside of your head in a way that becomes addicting. 

Bucky might be getting addicted to the way Steve makes him feel: like one raw nerve; tender and exposed and so, so alive. 

"Hm, okay. We'll see," Steve says noncommittally, sitting back him his chair. And it's like all the air is let back into the room, the string of tension cut. Bucky feels off balance for a moment, and then wants to laugh because fuck, it's so easy for Steve to wind him up.

"Why don't you go get ready for me." Steve tips his head toward the hall.

"Yeah, okay," Bucky says, getting up from the table. 

"Okay what?" Steve barks, and Bucky can't hide his grin. He's been looking forward to this for days.

"Yes sir," he says, sketching out a lazy salute and heading down the hall to the Captain's room.

***

The nerves this time are of anticipation rather than anxiety. He still can't manage to take his shirt all the way off, but he does unbutton it and leave it hanging open so a strip of his torso is visible and more importantly, accessible. He sits on the familiar weight bench and closes his eyes, concentrating on calming his heart rate so he doesn't spiral into a panic attack right out of the gate.

"Look at that," Steve says as he comes into the room. "Did you get yourself all pretty for me, James?"

Bucky follows Steve's eyes to his crotch, neatly shaved unlike last time, and feels the blush crawl across his skin. Because it had been for Steve. Bucky'd spent an hour in the bathroom last weekend slashing and burning through his dick jungle, all the time thinking about how much better—how much _more_ —Steve's hands would feel sliding over his bare skin. 

"Yeah—yes," he chokes out, heat unfurling in his belly. His cock twitches against his thigh at the way Steve is looking at him, the weight of Steve's eyes like fingers on his naked skin.

"I'll have to reward you for that," Steve says, but honestly the prospect of his hand on Bucky's cock, the way Bucky knows he'll be begging and crying for it in a matter of minutes, is reward enough. He's not sure when he became such a masochist but with Steve's eyes on him it feels easier to accept that he wants it. 

"I think we'll do things a little differently today," Steve says after a moment. "Get up and move that bench over there." He gestures to the far wall beneath the window. From the indents on the carpet, it seems to be where the bench lives when the Captain is not in session. "Let's see those muscles in action."

Flushed and squirming, knowing Steve is watching his every move, Bucky gets up and bends to push the bench across the room. He knows just how much he's exposed in this position, naked from the waist down with his open shirt flapping around his waist. Not to mention all the shit flapping around below his waist. But it's the prospect of Steve seeing the bulky muscles in his calves and thighs and the way his shirt pulls against both his real and metal biceps that has his skin prickling with embarrassment. 

Between the surgeries and the PT designed to bulk him up to balance the weight of the arm and stabilizers on his left side, it sometimes feels like he woke up in the wrong body. He'd been fit before, leanly muscled in a way he didn't have to work much for, but in the last year he's gone from sports car sleek to built like a fucking bulldozer—and not even the pretty kind of built. There are no rippling abdominals or carved come gutters to be found on him; he's just _big_ , broad shouldered and barrel chested. Solid, like a literal slab of beef, if that beef was then rolled through some dark shag carpet and then carved open and sewn shut a few dozen times.

Mostly he can forget about it. He can go days at a time without the idea of himself he's carried for twenty six years and the reality of himself in the mirror cage fighting in his fucking rabid squirrel brain, but the thought of Steve—small, graceful, gorgeous Steve—watching him, his naked muscles bulging in this body that's shaped like a four year old's drawing of a ninja turtle, makes embarrassment squirm under his skin.

But when he turns back around, Steve isn't looking at him. He's pulling what looks like a smaller, thicker version of Nat's yoga mat out of one of the drawers in the chest against the wall. He unrolls the black pad and drops it on the floor in front of the chair he'd sat in last week.

"Kneel here," Steve says.

Bucky drops himself onto the pad with all the grace of a felled tree. Unsure what to do, he puts his hands on his thighs and immediately regrets the way it accentuates how thick they are in this position, how much space they take up. Steve hums and walks around him, inspecting his position. Bucky tries not to jump when he feels Steve's cool hands on his shoulders, urging them down from around his ears and back so he's sitting up straight. He comes around to Bucky's front and nudges at his knees with the side of his bare foot. Bucky spreads his legs wider without a word, feeling exposed and open and vulnerable. 

"Stay just like that," Steve says.

He runs his hand through Bucky's hair and it takes all his restraint not to lean into that small touch. Steve drags his nails down the back of Bucky's scalp, squeezes firmly at the base of his neck, and Bucky swallows back a moan, digging his fingers into the meat of his thighs to stay still. Steve is so close, he'd only have to lean forward a couple of inches and he could press his face to Steve's stomach. He doesn't know why he wants to, only that Steve's touch is both too much and not enough and fuck, why hadn't he taken off his shirt. 

Steve moves around him, he's behind Bucky now, running his hands over his clothed shoulders, massaging gently until he reaches the metal. "Oh," Steve says quietly, and oh yeah, that's why he kept it on.

Steve doesn't say anything else, doesn't change the mirrored movements of his hands as he slowly kneels behind Bucky, pressing his chest to Bucky's back and running his hands down Bucky's arms, squeezing and testing the shape of both muscle and metal. Running them across the exposed skin of his chest, dragging his nails through the hair there, scraping over his nipples and oh christ, Bucky's going to die if he can't move. He wants to press closer, he wants to arch away. Inexplicably, he wants to cry. He's trembling, floating in this small, quiet space where the only sounds are his ragged breaths and the soft scrape of Steve's palms along his skin. 

"You're being so good for me, James," Steve says, and his voice is so close. His breath is on Bucky's neck and his lips graze his ear and Bucky can't help the small noise that crawls its way out of his throat. "Touch yourself for me, let me see," Steve says. 

Bucky lets his eyes fall closed and wraps his hand around his half-hard dick. There's none of the resistance or embarrassment of last time, not even the feeling of exposure from earlier. His hand is firm and warm, his dick pulsing against his palm as he squeezes and pumps his fist. It feels good. It feels good to do what Steve tells him. It feels good with the warmth of Steve at his back, and the weight of his eyes on Bucky's hand and his breath on his skin. It feels good with Steve's thumbs running soft circles over his trembling stomach. It feels good with Steve's hand sliding lower, curling around the base of his cock and squeezing—and _oh_. Pressure, a hot ache unfurling in his gut and Bucky jerks against Steve.

Steve slips his hand lower, tugging hard on his balls. "I said stay still," he growls and oh fuck that voice in his ear and his nails scratching red lines over Bucky's thighs and Steve is so close, so close to him he can smell his soap and his hands—

"Close," Bucky grits out, expecting Steve to tell him to stop. Wanting to stop before it gets to be too much, before he realizes he can't do it, before he's left with only the ache and the empty disappointment. Wants Steve's hands on him, wants him to pull the pleasure from him, claw it out of him, make him give it up. 

"Slow down," Steve says instead, covering Bucky's fist with his own and squeezing tight, guiding him into a glacial rhythm, a slow descent down his length, inch by trembling inch. "Keep going, just like that." 

Steve swipes two fingers over the wet head of Bucky's cock and Bucky has to lock every muscle in his body not to jerk into his touch. He brings his fingers to Bucky's mouth, drags them over his bottom lip and presses inside, presses against his tongue. Bucky closes his mouth around Steve's fingers, groaning at the taste, the way his lips stretch around them. The feeling of Steve inside him. 

"I bet you taste so good, sweetheart," Steve whispers in his ear. He wants Steve to taste him. Wants to turn his head and press his mouth to Steve's, press his taste onto Steve's tongue. He can't, he knows that would break some unspoken rule of their arrangement, but god he wants that moment when his own taste melts away and it's just Steve in his mouth.

"Close," Bucky moans, just the thought of it pushing him to the edge.

"Keep going," Steve says, getting up from where he's kneeling behind Bucky. "But don't come."

A whine works its way out of Bucky's throat, but he keeps going, clamping down some inner muscle to stave off the building pressure, letting it spread through him like ink in water. Steve settles himself into the chair in front of Bucky and grabs a bottle of lube from the table beside him, uncapping it and leaning over to drizzle some over the head of Bucky's cock. Bucky shivers when the cool liquid drips down his length, moans when his slow-moving fist strokes over slick skin. 

Time seems to unspool, unwind until he's not sure if he's been kneeling there for ten minutes or ten geological ages. He tries to count his strokes to ground himself, but they're so slow each one feels never ending, melting his brain like a bowl of ice cream left too long in the sun.

"Steve," he gasps, unable to resist leaning forward and resting his forehead against Steve's knee. _Touch me_ , he thinks. _Make me_ , he thinks. "Please," he says. Steve's hand sinks into his hair, tugging his head up so he can see Bucky's face, and Bucky leans forward, pressing as much of himself as he can into the vee of Steve's legs. 

"What do you need, sweetheart?" Steve asks. "Do you want to come?" Bucky nods, his eyes fluttering closed when the movement tugs at his hair in Steve's grip, making nerves spark and spill down his spine.

"If I let you come so soon, you'll have to make it up to me," Steve says, and even with his eyes closed Bucky knows there's a wicked grin on his face. 

"Anything," Bucky says, his hand stuttering over his cock. He digs his teeth into his bottom lip, trying to hold back the whine in his throat.

"Remember you said that," Steve murmurs, letting go of his hair to stroke a hand over his jaw, down his neck, lighting little fires under his skin. "Faster now, James. Let me see you come."

Bucky's fist makes slick frantic noises on his cock, his breath panting and ragged. He leans forward, pressing his face into Steve's thigh, breathing in the smell of him, laundry detergent and the leather and metal of his belt, and under it all the salt skin musk of Steve. Bucky can hear the gentle rumble of his voice but he can't make out the words, he's tuned inward now, straining to reach what's been just outside his grasp for so long. There's no doubt now, no anxiety or recriminations—he knows he can do it, because Steve told him to. He can be good for Steve. Steve's hands stroke over his hair, his shoulders, his back and Bucky presses himself into the cradle of his legs, rubs his face against his thigh, feels the ridge of Steve's hard cock under his cheek and then his lips and _oh god_ —

Bucky makes an embarrassingly desperate noise and comes all over his fist. He stays there for a moment, panting into Steve's lap, feeling Steve's cock jump under his cheek and Steve's stomach moving with his own hectic breaths, and feels strangely let down by his own orgasm. It's a little anticlimactic, like spending two years climbing Everest only to realize the view from the top is a Walmart parking lot. The orgasm was good, don't get him wrong, but unremarkable. Shouldn't there have been fireworks or cannon fire, or at the very least rainbow confetti shooting out of his dick? _Something_ to commemorate his first successful masturbatory mission in two years.

"You did so good, James," Steve says, stroking a hand through his hair. Bucky looks up to see Steve looking down at him with an expression that is both heated and tender. Steve is proud of him, he realizes, and it makes his heart feel like a little kid on a sugar high, running around in circles in his chest, rebounding off his rib cage.

As though he can tell, Steve's eyes slowly shutter and his expression smooths out into something smug and sharp. He stands up without warning, and Bucky makes a small, surprised noise when the movement makes him fall back. Steve catches his shoulder, maneuvering his still-limp form around until Bucky's got his back pressed against the chair, his legs splayed and stretched out and his head lolling like a ragdoll under Steve's grip. Steve kneels between his thighs, looking down at Bucky's body, and gives him a smile that, in retrospect, should have sparked some kind of fear response.

"Anything, right?" Steve says, and then wraps his wet fist around Bucky's softening cock, jerking fast and rough. Bucky's whole body tries to arch away from the feeling of too much, too soon, too hard on his too sensitive skin. 

"Steve," Bucky gasps, his hands flailing out to grasp at Steve's shoulders, his arms. He feels the the muscles flexing in Steve's right arm as his fist moves over him, making sparks flare behind his balls, sharp and hot and is this pleasure or is it pain? He can't tell. It's both. It hurts but in a way that tells him it will feel good again soon. Steve will make it good.

"Wrap your hands around the chair legs," Steve grits out, his voice rough and tight like it costs him something to speak. Is he feeling it too? Does he know? Bucky lets his hands fall away from warm skin, wraps them around the cool wood of the chair behind him. He spreads his legs wider when Steve nudges at his inner thighs, lets his knees fall open and away and feels like he's opening his whole body to Steve.

Steve's fingers press against him, rubbing wet circles over his exposed hole in counterpoint to the hard fast tight rhythm on his dick, and Bucky's body seizes, contracts, his legs pressing together to keep Steve there, right there. Please. One finger slides into him, pressing gently, pressing deep, pressing right up against where he is swollen and tender and _fuck_. He's shaking so hard he thinks he might come apart, dissolve to pieces between Steve's hands and he can't stop the flood of small hurt noises coming out of his mouth. 

"Shh," Steve says softly. "You're alright." He strokes a finger in and out, squeezes his fist up and down Bucky's cock. Steve is looming over him, his breath ghosting over Bucky's skin, his cheeks splashed pink, his mouth open, his lips red, wet where he's licked them and Bucky wants to close his eyes against the picture he makes, against this feeling welling up in him, but he can't look away from Steve's gaze, hot and bright and holding him still. Holding him down. Holding him. 

"You know how good you look, James?" Steve says, and Bucky can only stare at the way Steve's mouth shapes the words. "All this muscle, and you're still so soft for me, aren't you? Prettiest thing I ever saw. Makes me want to get a mirror in here so you can see yourself. Maybe I should record you, huh? Let everyone see how good you are?" 

"Please," Bucky rasps, though he's not sure what he's asking for. He feels soft and small under Steve's hands, feels tethered, present in his body. Would he look different, if he saw himself right now? He doesn't know if he wants to find out.

"No, I think I'll keep you to myself," Steve says. "My pretty, good boy." 

_Keep me_ , Bucky thinks and bites his tongue to keep from saying it, from ruining it. His breath hitches and his dick twitches in Steve's fist and all at once the exposed nerve feeling of too much, too sensitive shifts to not enough. He feels the hot ache in his gut, his balls, spreading through him like melted butter. His skin is electric under Steve's hands, bright and burning for his touch. He wants it everywhere. He wants more. 

Steve slips another finger inside him, stretching him open, filling him up. His hand on Bucky's dick tightens and speeds, and Bucky feels his body bow into it, greedy for it, sharp heat surging up inside him, pooling under his skin. 

"Close," he manages to grit out, but Steve doesn't slow or stop. He adds another finger, three now, stroking inside him, pressing into the epicenter of that ache. Bucky moans, panting and arching, pressing himself up into Steve's fist, sliding down onto his fingers and fuck fuck fuck he's going to—

"Look at you," Steve growls. "Taking it so good. You're so hungry for it, aren't you baby? You'd take anything I gave you. You'd take my whole hand if I wanted you to, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah," Bucky gasps, mindless with it now. "Yes, anything. Please. Steve, please I can't—I'm gonna—"

"You're going to give it up to me," Steve says, leaning over him, pressing deep, pulling harder, twisting his wrist. "You're going to give me all of it. Come on, sweetheart."

The world distills to Steve, to his own body, to the little punched out noises Steve is pulling out of him as he comes, clenching on Steve's fingers, releasing over his fist. And it doesn't stop. Steve doesn't stop. He's still stroking, still squeezing, still fucking his fingers inside him and Bucky writhes, his heels scrabbling on the rough carpet, high pitched whines and pleas flooding out of him.

"What do you say, James?" Steve growls, low and deep. "What do you say when I let you come?"

"Thank you," Bucky whines. "Thank you—god, please—thank you."

"Thank you what?" Steve bites out, his fist so tight, his fingers so deep, and it's building again, hot and sharp and Bucky can't, he's not going to be able to, it's too much it—

"Thank you, Steve," he cries as he comes again, his sore muscles contracting, his body curling inward as he sobs. "Thank you, Steve. Please, stop oh my god—"

And then Steve's face is pressed close, and his mouth is on Bucky's, wet and soft. His tongue slips inside, and the noise Steve makes vibrates inside Bucky's mouth, against his teeth, over his tongue. Steve's hands are gentle on his chest, his face, his hair, calming Bucky down as he kisses him, deep and hungry. There's a current running between them—their mouths, their hands, their bodies—both electric and tender, and Bucky wants to cup his hand around it, pull it in close and hold it there.

Steve pulls away as suddenly as he'd descended, his eyes wide and wild as he scrambles out of Bucky's hold like he's been burned. "Jesus—fuck," he says sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "James, god. I'm sorry, I should have—this isn't—I don't _do_ this," he says finally, his voice almost frantic. 

"Oh," Bucky says, feeling slow and removed, as though he's observing through a dirty mirror two rooms away; he can hear the shape of the words but can't make out their meaning. "Okay."

Awareness seeps in at the edges, slowly and then all at once, and the sudden sensory overload is jarring, like he's been dropped back into his body from a great height. His chest is tight. His ears are ringing. His lips are numb. He feels... suddenly he feels very, very naked, and cold down to his bones. 

Steve closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, and when he looks at Bucky again, he's calmer. His eyes as direct as they usually are. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have taken advantage of you when you were like that."

"Like what?" Bucky asks, his voice so flat he almost doesn't recognize it.

"Flying," Steve says. "You were in outer fucking space and I didn't ask if you want to be kissed or...or touched like that. I've never done that before, and I'm so, so sorry, James. It was an accident, and it won't happen again."

"Okay," Bucky says again, because what else is there? He can't process this right now. He needs to go home. He needs a hot shower and several hours alone in a dark room. He clambers to his knees and feels distantly the way the muscles in his thighs and stomach twinge with the movement. "I'm going to get dressed now."

Steve nods. "I'll just…wait for you in the kitchen then," he says awkwardly. "We can talk about it when you're dressed."

Bucky sits down on the weight bench when Steve steps out and closes the door behind him. His limbs feel both heavy and far away as he pulls on his pants and tries to button his shirt. His hands are shaking. He feels like his bones are rattling under his skin. He takes deep breaths, willing away the panic he knows is lurking just under the surface, and tries to sort through the snarled ball of string that passes for his temporal goddamn lobe these days.

After a few minutes, several things become clear. First, he has come all over his shirt. And possibly his hair. Which...fine. He'll spring for a Lyft home. Whatever. Second, and most importantly: Steve is full of shit. Nobody kisses like that on accident. 

He pulls on his boots and stalks out to the kitchen. Steve is sitting with his elbows on the table, his head dangling between his arms, and when he looks up he looks...small. Unsure. 

"Are you okay?" Steve asks, his hands spasming on the table as though he can't decide if he should reach for Bucky. "I fucked up—"

"What if I want it to?" Bucky interrupts, refusing to be distracted by the way Steve's sad eyes pinch something in his chest.

'What?" Steve asks, clearly thrown.

"I'm not in space anymore. I'm sweaty and sticky and I'm pretty sure you got come in my hair and I'm asking if you want to kiss me again," Bucky says.

He knows this could end badly. He could have misread the situation—maybe kissing him really was an accident that Steve has no interest in repeating. That would be fine. Not ideal, but hey, he's survived worse than a little rejection. He just needs to _know_. Because kissing Steve was good. Kissing Steve was maybe even better than all the orgasms he can still, unfortunately, feel drying on his skin. Kissing Steve felt like proof that he can still have good things—that he's still worthy of kisses and soft touches and intimacy, even if his brain and his body are about as welcoming as a haunted house with faulty wiring on his best days. He doesn't have to wait until he's "fixed" to reach for those things. He can have them now. He _wants_ them now. 

Because fuck waiting for good things to happen. If there's anything these last few years of hell have taught him it's that if you want something, you have to put in the work. You want a functioning arm, you want a functioning brain, you want a functioning fucking life, you better be ready to goddamn work for it. Nothing comes easy. So Bucky will trade the awkwardness of potential rejection if it means he's got a shot of coming out of it with something good.

"I don't kiss clients," Steve says warily, but the line of his shoulders has softened, and his eyes are running over Bucky's face, as though looking for the lie.

"And I don't kiss the guys I pay to jerk me off," Bucky says more sharply than he means to. "But I want to kiss you."

"Really?" Steve says softly, like it's actually hard for him to believe.

"I wouldn't ask if I didn't mean it," Bucky says evenly. 

Steve swallows hard, and leans forward like he's going to come closer before jerking himself away again. "Hold on—just give me one second." He pulls his phone out of his back pocket and swipes the screen a few times before throwing it onto the table.

"Okay," he says, and Bucky feels his own phone buzz in his back pocket, and then immediately forgets its existence when Steve lunges out of the chair and practically tackles him.

It's a little awkward with their height difference, but Bucky doesn't mind bending down to reach Steve's hungry mouth, curling into the arms Steve is winding around his neck. On impulse, he wraps his arms around Steve's slim, strong body and heaves him up so Steve can wrap his legs around his waist. Bucky makes a small, "oof," sound into Steve's mouth and then gets to feel the way Steve's lips stretch into a smile against his. 

***

"So, not that I don't want to make out with you in your kitchen for the next ten or twelve hours," Bucky murmurs later, when their lips are sore and swollen and their kisses have devolved into just breathing each other's air. "But I actually do have to head home soon."

Steve pulls away slowly, his eyes slide away from Bucky's as he straightens his shirt. "Oh, sure. Of course."

"I have to feed Meatloaf—my cat," Bucky explains. "And also shower before I start getting itchy and have to claw all my skin off." He doesn't mention that, while making out with Steve is amazing, he's reaching the limit of his Functioning Human reserves for the day. Today has been...a lot. He needs to go home where it's quiet and safe and go through his nightly routine until he feels settled in his skin again. 

"Yeah, don't do that. I like your skin," Steve says with a smirk, running his hand up Bucky's arm. "Do you want a clean shirt to wear home?"

"Yeah, that would be great," Bucky says, and then squints at the narrow set of Steve's shoulders. It's easy to forget how much smaller Steve is, even when he's spent the better part of the last half hour wrapped around Bucky's torso like an octopus. "But I don't think I'm going to fit into anything of yours."

"You can borrow something of my roommate's, he won't mind," Steve says, and disappears down the hall. 

He comes back a few minutes later holding out gray hoodie emblazoned with the Air Force insignia. Bucky has a brief moment of thinking he'd rather go home in his come-stained flannel than wear a Chair Force shirt in public, but reason wins out. 

"Thanks," he says, making quick work of the buttons on his shirt and stripping off the damp fabric. Steve hands him a damp paper towel to wipe off with, and Bucky realizes this is the first time Steve's seen him completely naked from the waist up. It's the first time _anyone_ outside his doctors have seen him naked from the waist up. 

"It's not as bad as it looks," Bucky says, meeting Steve's wide eyes.

"Okay," Steve says quietly. And then, "I don't know what to say that won't come out stupid."

Bucky laughs. "That's already less stupid than like 90% of people, so you're good."

Bucky pulls on the sweatshirt, wincing at the noise the seams make when he pulls it over his arm. "Hope I don't stretch this out too bad."

Steve's eyes are wide and hungry. "Who cares," he says, licking his lips. And Bucky can't deny it does his ego good to see it.

"Probably your roommate, pal," Bucky says with a grin. "Okay, listen, I've got to go but I'm thinking maybe tomorrow if you're free, we can go out and get some dinner? Talk about something other than my dick and how mean you're gonna be to it for a change?"

Steve grins. "Hey, let's not take your dick off the table completely, that's like, one of my top five favorite topics," he says, his smile widening when he sees the blush spill over Bucky's cheeks. "But, sure. Yeah, that sounds good."

Steve walks Bucky to the door, and Bucky turns, grinning at him. "This time last week I was working myself into an anxiety attack trying to decide whether to shake your hand or give you a hug," he says. 

Steve raises a brow. "So you settled on the world's most unsettling high five instead? Bold choice."

"No, that was—you—some wires got crossed is all," Bucky says, flustered and embarrassed all over again. He will never, ever be over that. "My point is now I don't have to second guess myself." He grabs a handful of Steve's shirt and reels him in gently, bending down to brush his lips over Steve's parted, smiling mouth. 

"Much better."

*** 

"'Lo?" Bucky mumbles into his phone when its buzzing pulls him out of sleep later that night.

"I'm not giving it up," Steve says without preamble.

"What?"

"The Captain stuff. I'm not going to stop," Steve says.

"Okay," Bucky says slowly, flipping over onto his back and running his cool metal hand over his face, trying to wake up enough to process whatever this is. Meatloaf huffs pissily next to him, and he drops his hand to her side, giving her belly a few long strokes. "I didn't ask you to?"

That seems to give Steve pause. "Well. What if we start dating?"

Bucky squints into the dark. "Steve, I know my brain isn't exactly mint condition but I don't think I'll suddenly forget what you do for a living."

"So it wouldn't bother you that your boyfriend jerks off other guys all day?" Steve says almost belligerently. "If our positions were reversed, I don't know if I could handle it."

"Okay, then I guess it's a good thing I'm making a living off being a human test subject and not selling ass," Bucky says, a little exasperated. "I'm not sure what you want me to say here, Steve. I don't have a problem with what you do, and it'd be pretty hypocritical of me if I did."

Steve is silent for a moment, and it occurs to Bucky that he might be looking for an out. "Do you not want to go out tomorrow, is that what this is about? We don't have to if you've changed your mind."

"No!" Steve says quickly. And then sighs. "I'm sorry. I'm just. So fucking bad at this."

"Bad at what?" Bucky asks.

"These—the feelings shit," Steve says. "It's been...awhile since I dated, I don't know if I remember how to do this. I feel like I need training wheels for my emotions or something."

"Welcome to my life, pal," Bucky says with a laugh.

"Are you kidding? You're so much better at this than me."

"You too can be an emotionally aware, semi-functional basket case for the low low cost of intense PTSD therapy and a handful of horse pills every morning," Bucky says drily.

"Well, sure, if I wanted to take the easy way out," Steve says, and Bucky laughs in surprised relief. "I want to be able to do this," Steve continues, a determined edge to his voice. "I want to—you should make me."

"What?"

"Make me open up and tell you shit until I get used to doing it on my own."

"Steve," Bucky says slowly. "Are you asking me to top you...emotionally?" 

"I'm being serious, James!"

"I'm honored, really. Should we have a safeword?" Bucky asks, biting his lip to keep from laughing.

"You are such a dick, I can't believe this," Steve huffs. "Here I am, baring my soul—"

"I've yet to see you bare anything, Steven," Bucky cuts in. "But fine, we don't need a safeword, i'm pretty good at reading the room. I do have a few rules though—"

"I'm going to make you regret this, I swear to god next time you won't come for—"

"—first, you will address me as Bucky," he says, just barely managing to keep his voice steady, and is rewarded with Steve's deep laughter. It's too loud through the phone, echoing in his quiet room and making Meatloaf dig her claws into his side, but it's worth it. 

"Oh my god," Steve wheezes. "Do I have to?"

"Yes," Bucky says. "People who kiss me on the mouth and want me to be the dom of their heart absolutely have to call me Bucky."

"You are the _worst_ ," Steve says, and Bucky can see the grin he's wearing so clearly it makes his heart do somersaults. "Goodnight, _Bucky_. I'm...really looking forward to seeing you tomorrow."

Bucky's own grin is so wide his cheeks ache with it. "Look at that, emotional growth already. You're doing so good, sweetheart. I'm really proud of you."

"I'm hanging up now," Steve says.

"See you tomorrow, Stevie," he says, hanging up on Steve's indignant splutter, and then has to press his face into Meatloaf's furry belly to muffle a giddy noise. 

He feels lighter, somehow, though nothing significant has really changed. He's still got a brain like overcooked spaghetti and a body that looks like someone took a cheesegrater to it, but tomorrow he's got a date with a cute little sadist who might be just the right flavor of fucked up to deal with his own towering mountain of baggage. Steve makes him laugh and doesn't treat him like he's a bomb in danger of detonation if he's not handled correctly, and kissing him makes Bucky feel like he's being reanimated from the inside out. And that's not nothing. 

Bucky slowly slides his hand into his pajama pants and palms his dick because why not? He's feeling lucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to all of you who asked for more of these two dorks, it's been so fun to write them!
> 
> i have a couple things i'm working on ([kink bingo ](https://steebadore.tumblr.com/post/175173683585)for one, if you have any prompt ideas), and am on the [tumblr](https://steebadore.tumblr.com/) if you're into that sort of thing. *heart kites*

**Author's Note:**

> The real life [Dr Cum Control](https://drcumcontrol.tumblr.com). Warning: dicks everywhere.


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